Page 77 of Maksim

Fear, the real kind, not for my life but for my pride, worse my heart, comes barreling in. It turns my cum-filled stomach when Maksim pulls out of my mouth and shuts the shower off.

I’m a soaked mess on the tub floor, my hands wrapped around myself, unsure if I should be ashamed or content.

What happens now?

Will he just leave me here? Will he keep calling me shlyukha? Is that my new name?

My eyes clench shut when I remember the men from tonight, the ones he must have had to pay off in order to keep me alive. I don’t know how much it was, but it must’ve been years’ worth of work that I’m doing in the bakery. It’ll take my life to pay Maksim back.

I won’t be able to send money back home.

Everything will be different.

My bargaining power, my freedom, it’s… It’s gone, isn’t it?

I am shlyukha.

Shame washes over me at not only what I just did, what I enjoyed, but at how long it took for me to realize my incredibly obvious reality.

I am shlyukha.

I am shlyukha.

I am shlyukha.

“Elira?” Maksim towers over me like a king, a master I may as well call him.

Sobs erupt from my mouth, shaking my shoulders. I hug myself to control it.

“Elira.” Maksim crouches beside me and goes to put his hand on my shoulder but hovers it inches away. After a moment, he sighs and mutters under his breath. “Topoy grebanny idiot.”

I squeeze myself as he stands, expecting him to leave, but he grabs a towel and wraps it around me before lifting me gently and carrying me to his bed.

I bite my lip, silencing my cries as he lays me down and pulls the covers over me. His hand feels warm covering my shoulder, but when it leaves, my body cools.

“I’m sorry, lislchka,” he says with regret straining his voice before his presence fades.

I roll over to face his retreating form, confusion and fear making me sick to my stomach. I’m terrified to ask what I think I already know, but watching him walk away feels worse.

“Maksim.”

He stops and turns to me, his face twisted with concern.

I stare at his handsome features, my protector, my housemate, my owner.

I don’t want to know.

But I have to know.

“How much money did you have to pay those men?”

He frowns as he comes toward me and sits on the bed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” I say, my voice weak.

He’s quiet for a moment, but then, “A hundred grand.”

My breathing stops.