Page 17 of The Stalking King

He sighs. “I’m so, so sorry, Lia.”

“Thank you.” I stand on shaky legs. “I need to check on my mom.”

“We need to go,” He says. “You can’t stay here. You can file a police report from your new place, if you want. But for now, my only concern is your safety.”

“What about my Mom? She’s suffering enough as it is. I’ve just barely got her into a routine.”

He frowns. I can see he’s about to argue, but then it’s like he looks at me more closely, looks into me. He sees all the stuff everybody else always misses.

“I can put around-the-clock security on her place without her knowing,” he says. “How does that sound?”

I sniffle. “Yes, good, thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me,” he says gruffly. “I’m not a good man, Lia. But for you, I might roleplay for a while.”

He strides toward the door, suddenly gruff, distant. Did I cross a boundary by crying for so long and so hard into his chest? But he pulled me to him. Why would he do that if he wasn’t comfortable with it?

“I need to pack,” I say.

He stops at the door, turning, shaking his head. “I’ll send someone for your things. I’m not risking your safety any longer. We’re leaving.”

I wonder for a second what he’d do if I told him no. I’m going to the police instead. Would he throw me over his shoulder and carry me out of here?

More importantly, would I like it?

CHAPTER 8

MAKSIM

She gapes when I pull up outside the townhouse. The street is lined with dark sedans and American flags. It’s a politician’s street, the sort of place where a single room would cost more than her apartment.

She turns to me. “We’re staying here?” Then she seems annoyed at herself for the starry-eyed routine. “Not that it makes any of this any better.”

“Of course not.”

I should tell her about watching her, obsessing over her, her gorgeous wavy hair and the fierceness with which she treats her patients, her protective energy over Joel, her laughing with anyone who’s willing to spend a moment on warmth instead of misery.

But I remember how she cried in my arms, the pain in each sob. It woke something inside me, something I didn’t know existed anymore. Humanity, pity, affection.

We walk into the townhouse together. It’s large, with tall ceilings and comfortable furniture, but not much decoration.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” she says, giving me a look.

I grin. I love how she’s able to joke her way through the darkness, even if I can tell this is tough for her.

“Why, thank you,” I reply.

“Go and clean your hand,” she says.

“It’s just a graze.”

“Humor me.”

I lift my hand, smirking again. “I’m not the medical professional.”

She rolls her eyes. “Have you got a first-aid kit around here?”

I lead her into the kitchen and reach under the sink. She sits me at the table, then sits in the chair beside mine. When a strand of her hair comes loose, she places the first-aid kit aside and pulls her ponytail loose in frustration.