by Sara Hubbard
Her voice takes on an edge. “I like you, Luna, but I need to be clear. I feel like you might be looking for an ally, and while I would like to be your friend, just know that I will always be loyal to Maxim. Always.”
Just like that, Yara lets me know exactly where she stands. While I’m bothered that she refuses to see things as I do, I respect that she’s loyal. And I understand her need to protect.
“I understand,” I say sadly.
“Shall we continue?” she asks.
I stay at her side for the rest of the day, cleaning and helping her with the laundry. While I’m being shown around the house, I make a mental note of all the windows and the exits. Sadly, all of them are bolted, and I have no reason to believe the windows aren’t shatterproof as Maxim said. Though I will test them when I’m able. If they are, I have to wonder why. I knew his family was prominent and connected, but I can’t imagine Maxim needing a house built like a fortress. But then, when I think of his father and how many people he and his family have likely wronged, I have to admit they probably have more enemies than friends.
In the middle of the afternoon, Yara says, “I must go.”
We’re in the kitchen and I’m trying to put away dishes from the dishwasher, still unsure which cupboards which dishes belong in.
“Do you need anything before I leave?” she asks.
I shake my head.
I open my mouth in surprise when she pulls a phone free from one of her front pant pockets. She carries a phone. The only phone, it seems, that’s in the house. She taps a text on her phone. I stand taller. My instinct is to tackle her and take it. She’s shorter but much thicker. I could probably get the better of her, but then what? How the hell do I get out? Maxim would come home, and I shudder to think what he’d do to me.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.
After she leaves the room, I hear the intercom by the door. “Alarm paused.” The door creaks quietly as it opens, and I tiptoe quickly to the hallway to see if I have enough time to wedge the door open. By the time I sprint over to it, it’s already closed. My hands spring for the brass handle on the door, hoping I have a few seconds before it alarms once again. The bolt engages faster than the snap of my fingers. I tug and pull on that door with all of my weight, but it won’t move.
Frustrated, I slap at the door before stepping away. One day, I think. One day, I will get out of here. For now, all I can do is use my time wisely. Get to know the house better, go through every single room, analyze the windows, test them, look for cracks, faults, anything that could help me escape. I check out the basement, too, but there isn’t a single window or door down there. Defeated, I trudge up the stairs and stop in the kitchen. A block of knives sits on the counter. I stare at them for a long moment before I snatch one—the chef’s knife—and I imagine how the scene would play out in my head if I were to use it.
Could I stab him? I know I could, just like I managed to pull the trigger of his gun. Would it be easier if I hadn’t cared for him once upon a time? I slide the knife back in, not because I decide I can’t do it, but because I know he’ll notice it missing. Instead, I rifle through the drawers until I find a steak knife. He doesn’t seem to cook much, so he likely won’t notice it gone. Then I scurry back to my room and look for a good hiding spot—between the mattress and box spring.
And I wait.
The sun fades a while later. A beam shining in the room grows shorter and shorter until it’s finally gone and the room is in darkness. I turn on the only intact lamp then and walk to the French doors. I stare out at the lake beyond the backyard. This house, minus the sterile feeling, is what I described to Maxim when we dated. I told him exactly what I wanted and why. A beautiful home, by a lake, away from people, and with a beautiful kitchen. Is it a coincidence this home is similar to what I dreamed about? That his words to Yara were words I told him? Why do I even care? Why aren’t I focussed on escaping and using that damn knife?
A noise in the hall startles me. I spin my head in the direction of the door and still. Footsteps. The clock says it’s nearly eleven o’clock. And it’s Wednesday. What does he do all day? I stare at the mattress, thinking of the knife. My stomach turns again. This time I imagine Maxim on the concrete floor of the warehouse my father died in, Maxim’s blood surrounding him. His eyes open and lifeless.
I swallow hard. Of course, it would bother me to hurt him. It’s not in my nature. I’m a nurse, for crying out loud. I’ve always wanted to help people and not cause them pain. But I don’t have a choice. Like with the gun, he gave me no choice. And that’s on him, not me. I kneel down by the bed, grab the knife, and hold it in my hand. Do it. This is the only way. I stand and start for the door, but then I stop. I don’t want the desire for self-preservation to be so strong that it causes me to be someone I’m not. This is not who I am.
Find another way. Cursing at myself, I put the knife back and follow the sound of movement. When I get to his bedroom door, all I hear is the rush of water from the shower. Though I knock, I don’t expect him to hear. This would be a perfect time to use that knife, but still, I can’t.
I go through his bedroom and into his en suite. Steam hangs in the air and leaves residue on the mirrors and on the glass shower. He stands naked under the spray, his body glistening. With slight movements, the muscles in his body tighten and relax. The tattoos on his arms and chest seem to change shape as he runs his hands through his wet hair.
There is something about a beautiful man with an equally beautiful and strong body. You can’t help but admire it. This goes double for a man you’ve touched…tasted…and had deep inside of you. I clench my thighs and desperately try to turn off my desire for him. I’m helpless against it, and it makes me so angry with myself.
Still, I continue to watch him lather and appreciate the water as it slides down his wet skin. He stays in for so long. I almost wonder if he knows I’m here and he’s doing it on purpose to get to me, but his eyes have been closed the whole time.
Yara called him thoughtful. Is he thinking now? Analyzing? I’d love to know about what. He straightens, smoothes the hair out of his eyes and wipes his face with his hands before turning off the shower. As he reaches for his towel, I think he sees me through the foggy glass because he stills. I keep my eyes on his and not where they want to roam to.
He dries off, completely unembarrassed by his nakedness. In fact, I think he takes his time before wrapping that towel around his middle. Finally, he opens the door and steps out.
We say nothing. He simply approaches the sink, and, in his way, I step aside. I watch him as he brushes his teeth and applies aftershave. From his peripheral, he eyes me from time to time. I push up on my tip toes and slide back to sit on the countertop. We’ve done this before.
Find another way.
If I find a way to gain his trust and he lets me go, then I still lose the life I built for myself. I can’t live on the run forever. I’m not sure my mother could either. If I told her about my dad, she’d insist on going to the police and then what? I chew on my nails. There is only one other option—escape—but I’m not sure this house is escapable. Which means I would have to fight my way out, hurting him or hurting Yara. If I find the strength to do that, could I live with myself? I know my answer. A loud, resounding no.
When he’s done, he turns and steps in front of me. He’s a big man, especially compared to me, and his size is intimidating.
“Are you just going to sit there and watch me?” he asks.
I hold my head up and swallow the lump in my throat. “I haven’t seen you in a few days.”
“Is that why you decided to sneak in here and watch me shower? Because you missed me?”
I cluck my tongue at that, and he smiles at me with his eyes—like he used to. “Miss you? I hate you.” But I don’t.
He nods. “Well then, Luna, clearly there is something on your mind. What can I do for you?”
I look away toward the window and breathe.
His head dips slightly and his shoulders round as he tries to lower his gaze to the same level as mine. “Cat got your tongue?”
I can’t look away any longer. Meeting those onyx eyes is a mistake. I have nothing to say, and if I did, those thoughts are gone. I offer him a small shrug of my shoulders.
“Yara mentioned you helped her today.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“She’s different than I expected,” I say.
“How so?”
“I don’t know. She just is.”
A droplet of water slides down his long neck and slows as it curves around his muscular chest.
“She cares a great deal for you,” I add.
“I suppose she does,” he says, his expression stony.
“And you care about her.”
He looks away momentarily and doesn’t respond.
“There’s a picture of you and her in your closet. Why do you keep it in there?”
“Where else should I keep it?”
I frown at him. “It’s like you’re hiding it. I guess I wondered why.”
“Is that why you’re in my bathroom? You wanted to ask me about a photo?”
I adjust on the counter and push back a little. He’s too close. I can feel the warmth emanating from his wet body. “I honestly don’t know why I’m here.” And that’s the truth.
He clears his throat before stroking the bristle on his chin. “And I honestly don’t know why I keep that in the closet.”
“You’re lying.”
“So are you.”
I sigh. “The truth is…I really don’t know why I came in here. I think I’m just trying to figure out how to move forward when I’m so angry with you.”
“Hmm.” He takes a step back and leans against the counter so we’re side to side. His fingers brush against my knee as he grips the countertop. I don’t think he means to touch me. We’re just standing so close.
“To answer your question, I don’t display my affection—for anyone.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You know better than most, if you want to hurt someone or if you want to make a point, you can hurt people more by hurting who they love.”
“That’s how you operate?” I say, reminded of what they did to my father.
“No. That’s not how I operate. That’s how my father does. I like to keep my focus squarely pointed toward the people who wrong me. I have no interest in their families.”
“Do you think that makes you better?”
He shrugs. “No, it doesn’t, but I never said I’m a good man, did I?”
I feel the deep lines in my forehead as I frown at him.
“I have limits, Luna, even if those limits extend far beyond yours. I think you already knew this about me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
He eyes me. “Yes, you did. That’s why you walked away.”
“No, Max, it wasn’t.” Not directly.
“Max?” he repeats quietly, as if musing to himself.
He once told me that I was the only person he let call him that. He preferred his given name, but he would make an exception for me. It’s the first time I’ve called him that since we were forcibly reunited, and I didn’t mean to say it. It feels too personal, like a connection still exists between us. I don’t want there to be. No. I don’t want him to think there still is.
“I’ve thought about what you said,” I say. “About the six months.”
He nods.
“How am I supposed to convince you to trust me when I don’t trust you?”
“It’s a problem. Yes.”
“How do I forgive you?” I whisper. “Do you even want me to?”
He wrings a hand around the back of his neck as he stares at the glass door on the shower. The condensation fades, and moisture slides down the pane. He says nothing. I wait longer, but he still says absolutely nothing. He’s so taciturn. Just like before.
“I don’t even know why I bother.” I slide forward and hop down onto the floor. The tile is wet under my bare feet, and I stride to the open door.
“Luna,” he says, his tone commanding.
I stop but don’t turn. His feet slap at the floor as he approaches me. His warmth radiates through my thin clothing as his chest presses against my shoulders. If I turn, we’ll be face to face, and I can’t have that. At a distance, I can keep my wits about me and push my feelings and dormant desires aside. I can pretend he’s nothing to me and never has been. But standing too close? It’s like the rational part of me switches off and is taken over by raw emotions. His breath is in my ear, and the hair on my neck stands on end. Quietly, he takes a deep breath before he strokes my hair. It takes everything I have not to lean into his touch.
He whispers something to me in Russian.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
“I don’t need forgiveness. I did what I did to protect you. Tell me you know that.” His voice is low and even.
“You tried to kill me.”
He touches my shoulder and then slides his hand over my breast to clutch my side. He wraps his other hand around my waist, and gently pulls me in tight against him. It’s protective and warm, and too much.
“So did you,” he says. His damp chest bleeds through my shirt and chills me, and I can feel his growing erection.
“Let me go, Max.”
He doesn’t move at first. Then, he exhales slowly before releasing his hold and taking a step back. I walk forward, needing more space, and when I have it, I turn. I can’t help the tears rimming my eyes though I fight furiously to hold them back.
He tips his head to the side.
“What was I supposed to do?” I ask him.
“If you were anyone else…”
“What? You would have killed me?” My heart drops into my stomach and I clutch it as if it’ll make the pain go away. This man… How could I have let myself care for someone like him? How can I feel conflicted about him still?
After a long silence, it’s clear he won’t give an answer, which speaks volumes on its own. “I guess it’s a good thing I saved your life then. Otherwise, I’d be dead. Right?” My first night here he told me he never thought about me after I left him. He was quite convincing. But in my gut, I know it’s not true. He still cares for me, and I know this because of the way he held me just now. I know because I’m still alive. I don’t think he could ever owe a debt large enough to risk his own life or the lives of people close to him.
He rolls his shoulders and refuses to respond again.
“Let me see my mother,” I say suddenly, hoping his feelings are enough to grant me this one wish. “Let me see her, and we can start over.”
He shakes his head.
A tear slides down my cheek. “Just once.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I’m not asking to talk to her. Just see her.”
“How can I be sure you won’t cause trouble?”
“I promise I won’t.”
He chuckles without humor and then his face becomes serious. “I have to think about it.”
My heart balloons in my chest, but then I steel myself. “Really? You’ll think about it?”
He stalks toward me, and when he’s at my side, he cranes his head down to whisper in my ear as he passes. His voice is low and soft. “Yes.”
I glance over my shoulder as he turns the corner in his bedroom to go into his closet. I hurry after him and catch him as he removes his towel before dropping it in his laundry basket. I feel the need to look away, but I’m mesmerized by his ass and the way his muscles move as he saunters to his chest of drawers. Yes, he’s handsome and mysterious, but this wasn’t the only thing that attracted me to him in the beginning. It was also how confident and sure he was of himself.
“I’m sorry. I should go.” I start to leave, but he calls out to me. With my hand on the doorjamb, I peer back into his large walk-in closet.
“Before I forget, how
about you go get that knife you took and put it back in the kitchen. Maybe that might make me more inclined to grant your request.”
I gasp. “Max, I—“
“Don’t,” he says firmly. “Put the knife back, and we’ll never talk about it again.”
He might have said yes, and I worry I’ve blown my chance of seeing my mother. “You’re going to say no to me, aren’t you?”
“Put the knife back, stop trying to kill me, and then we’ll see.”
He grabs a t-shirt and pulls it down over his head. When our eyes meet again, I expect to see anger. How could he not be angry at me for hiding a knife? But there’s no trace of it on his handsome face. Instead, I see something I’m certain is hurt.
Chapter 10
Maxim: I bounce on the balls of my feet and roll my head. My energy is low from lack of sleep and my head is foggy from the beautiful distraction in the spare room of my house. It’s fucking frustrating so my punches are weak and unfocussed. Usually, I’m on point when I’m training.
Jab, jab, cross, cross, upper cut, upper cut.
“Again,” Niko tells me.
Feet apart, I put everything I have into it. It’s still shit.
“No!” Niko growls. “Where’s your head?”
I growl and grunt as I hit the pads on his hands again, over and over, until I run out of steam.
“No. You’re focussing on your brother and not on me.”
At that, I turn my head to see my brother training with Andy Martin on the other side of the gym. I don’t want him here. It’s my place, and it always has been, but I’d rather keep an eye on him if he’s training to fight better. He’s not my problem, though. Luna is. I can’t get the image of her crying in her sleep out of my head.
“You’re wrong, old man,” I tell him. When I glance back at him, he smashes the pads into my head.
It doesn’t hurt, but it catches me off guard and fires me up. My punches come harder now.
“Good! Again.”
That’s all I needed. Someone to spark the beast inside of me.
About a half-hour later when I’m exhausted and I’ve got nothing left, he finally moans, “Stop, stop!” He scratches at the scar above his left eyebrow, the same one he got in prison when he was jumped by six men. He removes the padding from his hands and holds them in his armpit. “Come back tomorrow when your mind is clear.”