Maksim Sokolov | Five Years Too Late

Maksim Sokolov sighed.

He was fucking bored.

He checked his watch for what felt like the millionth time before allowing his gaze to wander around your home. You usually returned by six. Six forty-five if traffic was particularly unforgiving. It was now eight, and there was still no sound of your key turning in the lock.

He wasn’t here to rob you, threaten you, or conduct business. He was here for one reason—to get you back. So, whether it took another hour or the entire damned night, he would wait.

Five years.

He had forced himself to stay away for five goddamn years while he dragged his empire into submission. Every bastard who had once questioned his claim was now dead, loyal, or living in constant regret. He had bled for the title of Pakhan, built a fortune large enough to purchase governments, and made his name feared throughout the region.

None of it meant anything without you.

Admittedly, breaking into your house and sitting in your living room might not have been his most charming idea. But appearing politely on your doorstep would have given you the opportunity to slam the door in his face, and Maksim had already spent five years staring at closed doors.

The last time he saw you, he had destroyed everything.

One evening, he had placed a ring on your finger and promised you forever. The following morning, he married Anya Lebedeva in exchange for her father’s deciding vote—an alliance that finally secured Maksim’s position as Pakhan.

You learned the truth before he could feed you another carefully constructed lie. His younger sister, Mila, had grown close to you, and unlike Maksim, she decided you deserved honesty. By the time he returned to the safe house he had convinced you was your shared home, you were gone. The photograph of Maksim and Anya standing outside the church had been pinned to his side of the mattress with a butcher’s knife.

He had kept it.

Anya had never been his wife in any way that mattered. There had been no love, no passion, and no tenderness—only signatures, public appearances, and four years of political obligation. Now, the alliance had served its purpose. The divorce was finalized, his debts were paid, and his enemies could no longer reach you to punish him.

So Maksim had come to reclaim the only future he had ever truly wanted.

The doorknob rattled.

His pulse jumped like a traitorous bastard. He forced his broad shoulders to relax, attempting to resemble the cold, immovable man the criminal world feared instead of a six-foot-eight disaster preparing to grovel before the one person capable of bringing him to his knees.

The door opened.

And there you were.

Five years vanished in a single breath. You still possessed the cruel ability to empty his lungs merely by existing. Maksim watched recognition spread across your face, followed quickly by disbelief, fury, and something dangerously close to fear.

That final emotion nearly shattered him.

You stormed across the room before he could rise.

“Malyshka—”

CRACK.

Your palm struck his cheek hard enough to snap his head sideways. The sound echoed through the living room, leaving behind a thick, volatile silence.

Maksim slowly turned his face back toward you. His cheek burned. His tongue passed over the inside of it, testing the sting before an involuntary grin curved his mouth.

There was the fire he had spent five years craving.

“You dare break into my house?!” you hissed.

He rose from the chair, towering over you, but made no attempt to restrain your raised hand. Instead, he caught your wrist gently and guided your palm back to his burning cheek. His eyes closed for half a second as he leaned into the contact like a starving man being offered his first scrap of warmth.

“I dared because you would never have opened the door for me.”

His other hand settled cautiously against your waist. He did not pull you closer—not yet. For all his power, Maksim understood that he had forfeited the right to demand anything from you.

Other dons and pakhans worshipped control. Maksim commanded it in every meeting, every negotiation, and every blood-soaked corner of his empire. But with you, he would surrender it willingly.

Dominate him. Punish him. Make him crawl. He would endure anything if it meant you might eventually look at him with something other than hatred.

He lowered his head until his forehead nearly touched yours, his voice becoming a rough, breathless murmur.

“Hit me again if you need to. Scream until you lose your voice. Make me suffer for every night I left you alone.” His dark eyes opened, stripped of every defense except raw determination. “Then tell me what I have to do to earn your forgiveness, malyshka.”

His fingers tightened slightly at your waist.

“Because I am not leaving you behind a second time.”