My hand reaches out of its own volition and gently brushes that hair aside. The gash isn’t deep, it continues to bleed as he thaws out. How did he end up with this?
“Max?”
His head lifts, and his eyelids flutter open. Those pale eyes find mine, cold and distant at first, but then a hint of relief flickers in them. “Nika. It’s warm. That’s…nice.”
A half-hysterical, half-genuine laugh bubbles up at the situation’s absurdity. We’ve been fighting each other—hell, trying to kill each other—for days, and he saysthat’s nice? Is he delirious?
I kneel in front of him, inspecting every line on his face.
The intensity of all the things he’s done hits me at once. Restraining me, interrogating me, touching me, breaking me down piece by piece…
As well as the things he didn’t do.
He didn’t claim my virginity when he found out. I did that.
And the revelation shook him. I’m not sure why, but he practically froze as soon as he realized. Let me take what I wanted but refused to do more.
He fed me, cared for me, let me stretch and work out.
Not only did henottie me up and leave me while smoke filled the room, but he went onto the roof in a blizzard to clear off the snow.
Which version of this man is the real Max Belov?
He appears before me as if for the first time. Everything until now—the violence, fury, and desire—was just a prologue to this moment. “Who are you?”
He shifts on the couch, his face twisted in discomfort. Then he sighs. “I’m the guy who killed his baby brother and sister.”
“Oh, Max…” The words escape before I can stop them. Worse, they come out…soft. So unlike me and everything I’ve trained to become.
Sympathy is a crutch for the weak. Dimitri taught me that. I cannot be weak.
But I do feel sorry for the man before me, and I don’t believe the truth is as blatant as he’s stated. It’s like how he said he killed his mother.
Max is not a killer. Not like that.
I don’t doubt he feels guilt and crushing responsibility, but I no longer believe he murdered his mom.
Not intentionally. Not the way he makes it sound.
He’s too loyal. The man has devoted his entire life to the concept of family, albeit a broken, criminal one like Roman’s.
Loyalty like that isn’t a learned behavior. It’s a core, fundamental belief that sprouts from valuing family above all else.
A little twinge of solidarity blooms in my chest, buzzing under my skin.
His pain runs as deep and pure as mine. We’re mirrors. Broken reflections of each other, both carrying the weight of dead loved ones.
In the growing silence between us, I’m not sure what to say. I want to ask, but I don’t because I need to still view this man as my enemy.
Unless I can turn him into an ally against Roman. Would that even be possible?
“Joy to the world, the Lord has come…”
Music carries over the mountains, clearer than the words of the song. Then they’re both lost in the wind before a few final notes ring out.
What is that sound? Is this what dying feels like?
Every now and then, when the wind is just right, noise from the town below will drift up to us. They must be having some kind of Christmas festival.
