I always suspected Max was a psychopath, but I didn’t realize he was this fucking crazy.
One moment we were having fun in the gym, and next thing I knew, he chained me to the bed again, giving me a peep show while he showered. I barely had time to process the marks on his body before he reappeared, sprinkling crushed rose petals on my bed.
His scars paint the portrait of an abused child who grew up to be a Bratva weapon.
Now I understand how Max became Max. They tortured him into this shape. Molded him into a monster, a killing machine who sees everyone other than his owner as an enemy.
I’ve never experienced anything like I have with Max. Up until now, my life has been simple. Fueled by cold rage I harbored for my father, revenge drove my every action.
Sympathizing with Max’s pain doesn’t mean I’ll let him win.
I need to get a grip and concentrate. The discipline Dimitri drilled into me for most of my life is still present, waiting for me to reclaim it.
Which means setting aside the heavy emotions and, more importantly, putting a lid on the scalding-hot cauldron of lust Max has stoked for the last week. Last night, in the gym, I would have kissed him if he hadn’t panicked and shoved me off.
Who even knows what else would have happened.
After spending almost the entire night thinking, I know what I should do.
Max sleeps on the couch, his right foot hanging off the edge just like last night. That position won’t do his ankle any favors.
He shivers in his slumber, small tremors quaking his body every few minutes. He’s yet to grab a blanket or pillow, still bedding down with his parka. I’m not about to tell him where the linen closet is if he hasn’t found it yet.
Every night, the fire burns down to nothing. Currently, it’s not even producing enough heat to ward off the chill creeping in from outside.
Good thing my blankets are nice and thick. By using my teeth, I can pull them up over my shoulders.
Max might not be too exhausted to spar with me, but every bad night costs him. The toll the hike and injuries took on his body is adding up. Gray shades his skin, and dark circles hang under his eyes. His hands clench and open until he wakes with a jerk and spots me staring.
I don’t shift away.
Without a word, he rises and limps over to the fireplace. As he crouches, his right ankle flexes outward under his weight. Somehow, he manages to maintain the pose as he stacks the last of the dry wood onto the fire.
I don’t speak as he peers out the windows. After days of constant accumulation, the snow has finally tapered off. A vicious wind howls outside the house, reshaping the snow drifts.
He knows what needs to happen…he just doesn’t want to do it.
I don’t blame him, but that doesn’t stop me from poking the bear. “The axe is mounted by the back door. There’s more uncut wood next to the driveway.”
Without looking at me, he straightens. I catch his wince when the weight hits his bad ankle. Squaring his shoulders, he hobbles over to his winter gear, suits up, and vanishes.
I twist, tugging at my restraints as I settle into my warm bed to wait.
Max’s outline forms a dark shape on the other side of the snow-covered window as he trudges to the woodpile. Then comes a constant plunk from outside.
That’s right. Wear yourself out so I can get out of here.
At one point, his silhouette stumbles and drops to one knee. For the first time since he broke into my sanctuary, I have a new urge.
Not to kill him or screw him, but to help him.
To pull him up out of the snow and get him inside so he can recover from the cold and exhaustion.
That new instinct terrifies me more than anything he’s done to me, more than my urge to jump him and climb him like a tree. This impulse to care means I’m starting to view him as more than my enemy.
I absolutely cannot allow that to happen. Everything I’ve worked for these past fifteen years has come to this.
But…struggling is one thing, and collapsing is another.
