PROLOGUE: MAKSIM
As I perched on the marble banister overlooking my family’s expansive gardens, I surveyed the hectic scene unfolding below me. Maids in black and white uniforms with their arms laden down with heavy, silver serving trays zig-zagged around butlers in tuxes balancing chairs or other odd pieces of furniture in their arms. Along with the buzz of conversation, the harmonious notes of a string quartet warming up floated in the air.
Even from my elevated spot, the hairs on the back of my neck lifted from the electricity humming in the air. At the thought of all the people who would soon be arriving at our mansion, my skin shriveled over my bones.
I fucking hated people.
I guess I didn’t hate them so much as I hated their small talk. It was their expectant faces when they inquired the most basic question that forced me to put my defect on display for all the world to see.
Or in my case, tohear.
The instant they discovered my stutter their expressions ran a myriad of emotions:
Shock
Pity
Disgust
Each emotion was a knife pricking into my skin. I’d been registering those emotions on faces since I first began to speak. As a child, I didn’t comprehend the emotion behind the particular expressions. It was only when I grew old and wiser that I fully understood.
It was hard to recall a memory from childhood that didn’t involve my defect. That was what my stuttering was to my parents–a defect. A crack in the perfection that was expected as the son of a BratvaPahkan.
The expression about a kid's first bully being his unhealed parent rang true. While my father tried beating the defect out of me, my mother resorted to high-priced therapies. When they didn’t immediately cure me, she stopped taking me.
To make up for my deficit, I’d spent my childhood and teenage years chasing perfection in every other outlet, from the football field where I brought home MVP titles year after year to my 4.0 GPA.
But it was never enough.
Gazing back down at the courtyard, my lip curled in disgust. To the outside world, no one threw a party quite like Danill Korolov. No expense was spared to make him appear like a king reigning over his subjects. His was an absolute monarchy where he was more tyrant than benevolent ruler.
But tonight’s party was special.
Tonight he would name his heir–the man who would become second in command and one day upon Danill’s demise would become the leader.
Since tradition mandated that it would be the firstborn son,Iwas that man.
It was everything I’d been trained for since I was just a kid. It was everything that was expected of me.
And it was everything I didn’t want.
“Maks?”
At the sound of my half-brother’s voice, I jerked my gaze over my shoulder. Outfitted in a crisp tux, Dima’s blue eyes apprised me as he cocked his blond head. Although I had every reason to hate him as one of my father’sublyuks,or bastards, as people called my half-siblings, I never could. Dima meant as much to me, if not more, than my other full brother, Aleksander.
Even though there were two years between us, we’d grown up practically like twins. Unlike some men who sired bastards with random women, Father had fallen in love with Dima’s mother, Irina, when she was barely eighteen. He’d moved her into an expensive high-rise apartment across the city from us and divided his time between his two families.
While my mother loathed the sight of Father’s bastards, Irina was warm and inviting to me and my brother and sister. In fact, I looked at her as more of a mother than my own. Unlike Irina, there was nothing warm and inviting about mine. Irina kissed away scrapes and bruises and sang songs after nightmares while my mother went on shopping excursions and held dinner parties. She really only connected with my younger sister, Annika.
When I cocked my brows at him, Dima gave me a knowing smile. “I thought I might find you out here.”
I scowled at him. “You knew I’d b-be hiding b-because I’m a p-pussy?”
Fuck. I hadn’t even made it to the party, and my stuttering was off the charts. I shouldn’t have been surprised. It always went into overdrive when I was on edge.
With a laugh, Dima countered, “Like you have a pussy bone in that absolute tank of a body of yours.”
Focusing hard on my words, I replied, “Emotionally.”
