Not a request. A command.
I followed on shaky legs, my heart pounding, my skin too sensitive, my whole body vibrating with the knowledge of what was coming.
The door closed behind us. The city noise swallowed us. The nondescript building disappeared into the Meatpacking District's trendy anonymity.
Theridehomewasexcruciating.
I sat in the passenger seat vibrating with anticipation and nerves, the velvet bag containing my collar clutched in my lap like something precious. Like something dangerous.
Maks didn't speak. His hands were steady on the wheel, his profile sharp against the passing city lights, his expression giving nothing away. The controlled patience was worse than anger would have been. Anger I could have responded to. This—this measured silence, this deliberate waiting—left me alone with my racing thoughts and trembling hands and the particular agony of anticipation.
Every red light felt like torture. Every block closer made my heart pound harder. The bag in my lap was warm from my grip, the tissue paper crackling slightly every time my fingers twitched.
What had I been thinking? Make me. I'd actually said make me to a man who'd killed people with his hands, a man who'd promised consequences with a predator's smile. My brain replayed the moment on loop—the bratty words, his darkening eyes, the way he'd caged me against the display case.
I'd asked for this.
I'd begged for it.
And now I was going to get it.
The apartment building appeared too soon. The elevator ride was endless. The hallway stretched before us like a judgment.
Ghost greeted us at the door, his long grey body winding between our legs, tail wagging at our return. The normalcy of it—my ridiculous dog, happy to see us, completely unaware of what was about to happen—felt surreal. Like I'd stepped into an alternate reality where domestic moments and inevitable consequences existed in the same space.
Maks acknowledged Ghost briefly. A pat on the head, a quiet "good boy." Then he closed the door behind us.
The locks engaged. All of them. The sound of metal sliding home, one mechanism after another.
Final.
He turned to me.
"Living room. Now."
Not harsh. Not angry. Just certain. The voice of someone who expected obedience and would accept nothing less.
I obeyed on shaky legs.
The living room stretched before me, familiar now after days in this space—the leather couch where we'd negotiated, the coffee table where I'd colored while he watched, the floor-to-ceiling windows that made the city feel like a silent witness.
Maks followed me in. Set down the velvet bag on the coffee table, deliberate and visible. A reminder of what we'd chosen today. What I'd asked for.
Then he sat on the couch.
The motion was controlled. Unhurried. He settled into the cushions like he had all the time in the world, like the trembling woman standing in the middle of his living room was simply another item on his agenda.
"Come here."
I moved toward him. One step. Another. Until I stood between his parted knees, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.
His hand reached up. Caught my chin. Tilted my face so I couldn't look away.
"You were bratty in the store," he said quietly. "Do you know why?"
The question caught me off guard. I'd expected the consequences to begin immediately—the positioning, the first strike, the sting I'd been imagining since we left the shop. Instead, he was asking me to understand.
"I—" My voice came out rough. Wrong. "I was overwhelmed."
