It was just. There. And huge.
He didn’t look away from me as he slowly put them on, tucking himself into the waistband like it wasn’t completely obvious he was hiding a baseball bat in there and walked over to the dresser.
He grabbed a pair of blue plaid boxers and came back to the bed, gently putting my feet through the holes and pulling the boxers up to my knees.
His body tensed, both hands suddenly shoved my thighs apart, then his head descended, and his nose was there.
Right there.
It tickled.
And it was so against character, I mean, he was always amazing in bed, but this was… primal.
Goosebumps broke out over my body as he took one big inhale like I was his drug, then shuddered, slamming my legs back together and jerking the boxers all the way up to my waist.
“Wh-what was that?” I asked.
“You sniffed both my shampoo and my conditioner, so I figured it was only fair that I sniffed your neck and your pussy.”
“Maks!” I blushed furiously. “You can’t just—”
“I did though, didn’t I?” His eyes gleamed. “You have five seconds to leave my room before I follow up with what I was just doing. One, two…” His voice lowered as he counted.
I scrambled off the bed and ran down the hall to my room only to hear him call after me.
“Lock your door, Iz.”
I didn’t have to be told twice.
Did I think he would hurt me? No, not physically, but something wasn’t right, and every instinct told me that letting him in, touching him, physically, emotionally bonding with him more than I already had—wouldn’t just be my death, but his.
So, I kept my door locked and stared at the wall I shared with him.
Was he okay?
I jumped when the sound of something breaking filled the air, followed by a yell, and then silence.
Me: Wrestling bears in there?
He didn’t respond right away; it was more like five minutes before he texted back.
Maks: Nah just my emotional demons. Care to tame them?
Me: Hard pass.
Maks: Damn it, worth a try.
Me: Really though… are you okay?
Maks: Are any of us really okay? Riddle me this… in the mafia, is anything ever normal? I think we’re all just really good at pretending.
Me: Are you? Good at pretending?
Maks: I don’t even know anymore. I don’t know who I am… sometimes I think I’m lost.
Me: So do whatever it takes to be found.
Maks: I am, Iz, believe me, I am.
Me: Good.
Maks: If I promise to be on my best behavior, can I sleep on the floor?
Me: Only if you promise not to touch me.
Maks: Touching you is a bad idea. I mean, it’s a good idea in theory, but… I don’t want to hurt you.
I wanted to type back, you hurt me every day you date someone else, every time you touch me and make me love you more and more, then walk away when all I want is for you to stay by my side.
To follow through on your promise.
Me: Fine.
Maks: You’ll have to unlock your door.
Me: You’re the one that told me to lock it.
Maks: Oh right…
Huh?
Maks: I’ll be right over.
I plugged my phone in to the charger I’d found left by the bed and went and unlocked the door to my bedroom.
Maks was already standing there, bottle of vodka in one hand and a sad smile on his face. “Drink with me.”
“Your poor liver.” I sighed. “Been drinking a lot tonight, probably why you went a little ragey.”
Actually, it made sense, I’d never seen him like that, but I knew better than anyone the pressure he was under from his dad. His dad’s legacy was known worldwide across all syndicates, crime families, and even government agencies.
It would be a lot to take in for anyone, especially considering what his dad did in his spare time—run a club that legally sold women, or I guess illegally sold women to men in order to get them out of trafficking.
More went on there, but the last time I asked Maks about it, he shut down and paled like he’d seen too much and didn’t want to scar me for life.
Apparently, his dad liked to torture people with animals, and Maks had walked in when Andrei was using a tiger for God knows what.
Maks never spoke of it again, but he suddenly hated Tigger and anything tiger-striped.
“Yup,” Maks answered and made himself comfortable on my bed.
“You said the floor.” I joined him and lay back. It was so easy with him, so comfortable. For years I’d dreamed of lying with him like this, no cousins walking in, no friends judging us, no parents getting angry and telling us we didn’t know what love was.
Why did that dream suddenly seem impossible?
Maksim was pale as he tilted the bottle back. We didn’t speak. I basically just watched him drink and emotionally self-destruct until the bottle was half empty, and he nodded off.
I grabbed it from his hands and gently tucked him into bed, lifting his heavy legs and pulling the covers over his body.
“I miss holding your hand,” he whispered without opening his eyes. “You think you can feel people after you die?”
I froze, watching his innocent peaceful face. “What do you mean?”
“I hope so,” he grumbled. “I hope you can feel me even after darkness falls… maybe my heart will remember yours and try to keep beating one last time—so I can hold your hand.”
“Maks, you’re just drunk; you’re not dying.” I lay down next to him. “Try to sleep.”
He held out his hand and whispered, “Just in case.” A solitary tear slid down his cheek onto the pillow.
Chapter Seven
“There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled at last, and this brief condescension to my evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul.” —Robert Louis Stevenson
Maksim
I see her.
I recognize her as mine.
I touch her, and it’s so familiar I want to cry.
But something inside my brain hurts—maybe I am going crazy. How great would it be if the very cure is what causes the sickness at the risk of my mental health.?
I fucking hate being sick.
I hate lying to her, and the lies keep falling easier and easier to the people that I love—to the people I swore to protect.
With a muttered curse, I jab the needle into my arm and inject the clear medicine. It takes a solid minute for my body to go numb again, for the shaking to stop, for my muscles to relax; at this rate I’m going to need muscle relaxers, so I don’t tear something—and I don’t mean my shirt.
I fucking wish that were the case, that I could at least explain.
My bed dips as I sit down, letting the drug do its job to keep death at bay, but I feel it even then, how much longer it takes for the medicine to work and how much more of it I need in order to stay normal.
Crying will do nothing, but I still want to. It’s so fucking dumb, but I want to be held; the shitty part is that every time I touch her, I have this inane alpha werewolf like response—something that would be laughable if I weren’t worried I’ll actually hurt her.
It takes everything in me not to rip her clothes from her body, and yet another part of me just wants her to tell me it’s going to be okay.