Page 7 of Maksim

I swallow down bile, closing my eyes.

And it’s a mistake because I was right, closing my eyes on Nikita is a bad idea.

His hand is in my hair, yanking before I have a chance to register his closeness, and I whimper as he hauls me to the blood stain. My hands sink into red goo when he drops me, and finally, the nausea wins. I turn my head to the side and dry heave, nothing in my stomach to come out.

Nikita kicks my leg, not hard but not a nudge, just enough to make it clear to the non-English-speaking foreign girl that he won’t put up with me messing around. I wipe saliva onto my shoulder, tasting dirt and salt, and pick up the sponge to get to work on the carpet.

My lungs burn from excursion as I vigorously scrub and try not to cry out. Not out of remorse or sadness, but out of fear. Pure, horrible fear that I didn’t realize deserved a voice.

They talk while I’m scrubbing like I’m not even here. Like nothing has happened. Something about a deal happening tomorrow night at an airstrip. They switch back and forth between speaking English and what I’m growing more and more confident is Russian. I know a little Greek, a smidge Italian, nearly no Russian, but I’m pretty sure ‘blyad’ means whore, and it’s been said several times now.

The water has turned a bright red color that reminds me of the late Anton’s shoes, and every time I dip the sponge, I question if I’m doing more harm than good. It needs to be refreshed, but I’ll scrub this entire carpet red before I open my mouth.

“This bitch is taking too long,” Nikita says, sounding bored. “I’m going home. When she’s finished, you both can do the same.” I feel him draw near, so I scrub harder, fighting the instinct to freeze.

“What do you want us to do with her?” Scar, or Roman as I’ve come to learn, asks.

Nikita pauses behind me, and now I can’t fight my instinct to freeze. Even my lungs quit working. Not my heart, though. It beats fast and hard, pulsing in my temples.

“Maksim, you’ve been a good boy, lately… You keep her.” Nikita’s cane presses against my ass that’s perched in the air while I bend over the blood, and he shoves me so I fall forward, knocking me into the bucket so watered-down blood sloshes onto my face and chest.

My lungs tighten

as the cocktail drips from my hair, my shaking sending the drops flying. I stay perfectly still and don’t dare get up while he’s behind me.

“I’m sure she cleans up fine,” Nikita says. “And who knows, maybe Anton was right about her being a virgin.”

He uses his cane to lift my dress up my thighs, making my teeth sink into my bottom lip to keep myself from screaming. “I’d have her tested first.”

There’s a pause before Maksim replies. “Thank you, sir.” He still sounds sterile.

I’m not even a nice gift let alone ‘product.’ I don’t know that I’m capable of feeling like less of a human being than I am in this moment.

Nikita removes his cane, allowing my dress to fall, and when he leaves, I let my lip go free and sit up, facing away from the two men.

I know I should get to cleaning right away, but I take just a moment. Just a moment to feel truly, terribly sorry for myself.

This is so much worse than any nightmare I ever could’ve imagined.

Someone behind me laughs.

I hunch forward as my muscles tense, bloodied water seeping from the sponge as I squeeze.

“Don’t,” Maksim scowls before Roman has said anything. Roman must’ve been the one to laugh. Because Maksim getting stuck with me is so funny.

But I’m… I’m only Maksim’s?

I’m not a prostitute for others as well?

“I didn’t say anything,” Roman replies.

I allow a few more seconds to pass before I push the sponge into the carpet, smearing the blood my senses have become accustomed to. I’m one with it now.

“Out of curiosity…” Roman’s tone is full of humor. “Are you flattered or insulted?”

Instead of answering, Maksim starts this way, so I pick up my pace, scrubbing at the blood with as much intensity as I had when Nikita was in the room. I don’t know why I ever let up.

When he walks past me, I peek up at his huge form. I registered that he was tall before, but now that his size actually matters, his broad shoulders seem to expand. Muscles ripple through a white shirt with every step, and they’re so expansive that the shirt doesn’t start to slacken until midway down his back, cutting off diagonally to hint at the V-shape formed by hours spent in a gym. Or worse, a ring.