Or maybe that was actually a snow-covered Max hitting the ground.
Squinting against the driving flurries, I try to make out any movements in the white. Slithering noise overhead warns me to step back inside as another dislodged load falls from the roof and lands at the door.
He’s still up there, alive and fighting.
Thefwumpscontinue their way toward the chimney.
Considering the height of the snow piles, I’m not sure he can even see it.
It’s not until the smoke in the house starts truly thinning that I realize he’s accomplished his task. Within seconds, I can see the fireplace again. The embers glow cheerily in the hearth, oblivious to everything else.
Still, Max doesn’t come down as clangs and thumps vibrate through the house.
No longer fearing death by asphyxiation, I close the door and wait, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth.
Frozen like the little girl on the island fifteen years ago.
With every strange thud, my heart stops. I twitch at each scrape against the roof. After the fifteenth or so time, my brain finally starts functioning again.
Mad Max Belov is braving a blizzard to clear the snow off my roof and ensure my house stays safe and warm. He could have just killed me, stolen my truck, and left.
The blizzard gives him the perfect reason to return to Chicago. I can just imagine the excuse he’d offer Roman.
They stopped answering. Must have fallen victim to the storm. We should regroup at the mansion and wait for them to contact us.
I’m sure the news is reporting how many cars have disappeared, their occupants likely missing until the spring thaw.
It’d be so simple to explain away.
Instead, he’s staying. Helping.
Hell, he could just use the snow to block all the doors and windows and then let the bad air finish me off.
He’s had a million chances to torture and kill me. Yet all he’s actually done is wreck my safe house and drive me crazy with his touch. Upon reflection, I’ve had no real torment, and I’m perfectly alive and well-fed.
What does he want from me?
What do I want from him?
Why do I care?
The thoughts constrict my chest.
Needing to distract myself, I go back to the fireplace. Once the chimney’s cleared, I can build up the fire again. I coax the embers into flame with three fresh logs.
Then I seize the opportunity to get a quick shower.
Running for the bathroom, I wash quickly and brush my tangled hair. Once that’s done and I pull the damp strands up into a tight ponytail, I finally feel like myself.
When I enter the living room again, I freeze.
Max hovers behind the couch, blood trickling from an oddly pale cut on his forehead. The red mixes with snow and drips down his cheeks in thin pink lines.
His features are stone until his eyes meet mine. Then he nods, steps around the couch, and collapses to the side as his ankle gives out.
I move toward him without thinking.
He catches himself on the arm of the couch and turns his fall into a slide onto the cushions. Sinking down into the seat, he relaxes. A dark, wet lock of hair sits plastered against his forehead, coated with snow and blood.
