If anyone’s going to take him down, I want it to be me. Not Mother Nature. That bitch gets enough deaths every year.
Max gets up again, positions another log, and splits it. Then the next one. And the next. He chops for what feels like hours.
I wait here—because I can’t do anything else—with my ears perked.
Finally, the garage door opens, followed by a heavy drag.
Is he limping?
Pushing the covers down, I hold my breath and lean as close as I can to the door.
After a squelch of wet boots and the chirp of rubber on tile, he’s in view.
Spattered in snow, angling to one side, Max tugs a blanket folded in half and filled with wet, chopped wood. He staggers and nearly collapses twice before he can set his burden down.
When he does, ice- and snow-covered wood spills out in front of the fireplace. It would have been easier to bring the cumbersome load in through the front door. Considering he didn’t, I suspect he replenished the garage’s stash before coming in with this bit.
He takes off his snow gear, laying each piece out the same way as before.
Only then does he sit on the couch with a slight grunt, his face raw from the wind and red and white in patches. “Why in the fuck do you live up here?”
I bite my lip to suppress my laugh. “I like being alone.”
“But you’re not alone.” He jerks his chin toward the hall and the other bedroom. “Tell me about Dimitri.”
Nope. Not going there. Dimitri is my lifeline, my trump card. If I can’t overpower or outsmart Max before the snow melts, Dimitri will help get me out of this.
I’ve got to shift Max’s focus, to keep him here in the present. “Max, you’re burning out. You can’t continue like this. Just give me the locket and go. It’ll be like we never met.”
He gives a short, guttural chuckle while tossing a few logs on the fire. The wet wood sputters and steams, but flames ignite soon enough.
“Face it. You’re shaking. You’re weak. You need to rest.” Once he finally passes out, completely, I can escape. If I work on the zip ties long enough, they’ll break. Then I can steal the handcuff keys from Max, grab the set to my truck, and get to my vehicle.
But Max doesn’t yawn or stretch. Doesn’t show any sign of softening or flagging.
Instead, his expression hardens as he narrows those icy eyes. “Weak? No, Nika. I’m just tired of your bullshit.”
He stalks to the bed.
I try to scramble back, but I have nowhere to go.
Max puts one knee on the mattress and hunches forward, encroaching on my personal space. He pulls a gun from behind his back and waves it near my cheek.
I grimace and lean away. “Congratulations. You have another gun.”
“This one isn’t mine. I got this perfectly cleaned and maintained Russian Makarov from a locked drawer in your comms room.” His eyes bore through me with his typical cold intensity. “Another lie, Nika. You told me you didn’t have guns.”
What’s he talking about? “I don’t have any guns.”
I’ve never even trained with guns. What’s the point of having a weapon I don’t know how to use?
He taps the barrel against my forehead. “Someone does.”
Dimitri…but…why would he? When we first moved into this house, I specifically said no firearms. Having them would prove too risky.
Protection…
That has to be the real reason. After all, Dimitri knows how to use guns. Despite my insistence on going after Roman, Dimitri’s dedicated his life to protecting me.
