Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Stefano
Maya falls asleep with Heath’s hand in hers.
She does it sitting upright on the edge of the bed, one shoulder braced against the headboard, head tipped at an angle that will punish her neck when she wakes.
Her hair has slipped forward over one cheek.
Her shoes are somewhere beneath the chair.
One hand rests lightly over Heath’s, fingers loose now that sleep has finally taken her, but still close enough that the boy can find her if he wakes.
He doesn't.
For the first time since he was brought into my house, Heath sleeps without jerking awake every few minutes.
Not peacefully. Not completely. His breathing still catches sometimes, and his fingers twitch against Maya’s palm, but he stays under.
Fever has taken the fight out of him for now.
Bellini says that will pass by morning if the medicine continues working and he keeps down fluids.
His body is tired. That was the word the doctor used because doctors prefer clinical language.
Erin sleeps curled on the other side of him with the rabbit tucked between them like a guard with poor training and excellent dedication.
Her face is still blotchy from crying. One hand is in Heath’s blanket.
The other is wrapped around one of the rabbit’s ears as if she doesn't quite trust the stuffed animal to remain at his post without supervision.
Maya has not moved in nearly an hour.
I know because I have been standing in the doorway too long watching her. Omar, of course, clocks my distraction.
He stands in the hall with his arms crossed, expression disciplined into blankness, but I can feel his disapproval from where I stand.
He has been doing that more often since Maya arrived.
Disapproving. Watching. Thinking thoughts loudly enough that I could punish him for them if thoughts counted as treason.
“She needs sleep,” Omar says quietly.
I do not look at him. “I know.”
“She will refuse.”
“I know that too.”
“Then don’t ask.”
That earns him a glance.
He meets it.
There are very few people in this house who would tell me what to do in any tone, let alone in the hall outside a sick child’s bedroom while the woman complicating every part of my plan sleeps beside him. Omar survives it because he is useful, loyal, and correct more often than is convenient.
Tonight, he is correct.
Asking Maya to leave Heath would wake the argument before it woke the woman. She would say no before her eyes fully opened. She would bare her teeth, brace that tired body between me and the child, and force me to either retreat or prove I can remove her.
Neither interests me.
Not here.
Not with the boy sleeping.
I step into the room.
Maya doesn't wake when I cross the carpet.
That tells me exactly how exhausted she is.
Even asleep, she is usually too alert. The first night, she woke when Omar cleared his throat in my study.
Yesterday, she woke when a guard passed too close to her door.
Tonight, she sleeps through my approach because her body has finally taken what she refused to give it.
Rest.
I stop beside the bed.
Heath’s hand tightens slightly around hers as if even fever recognizes the loss before it happens. Maya’s fingers respond in sleep, curling once around his before loosening again.
The motion is small.
It irritates me.
Not because it is tender.
Because it is automatic.
Because she has already made herself into a place these children reach for without thinking, and she has done it inside my house, under my guard, while telling herself she is here only long enough to take them away from me.
Maya Reeves is a complication with a pulse.
A dangerous one.
A useful one.
A woman who should not look right sleeping beside a child she met three days ago, and yet somehow does.
I reach for her hand first.
Slowly.
No sudden movement. No tug that might wake Heath. I slide my fingers beneath hers and ease them out of the boy’s grip one at a time. Heath shifts, frowning in his sleep. Maya makes a faint sound, not quite waking, and I pause with my hand around hers.
Her skin is warm.
Not fever-warm. Exhausted-warm. Human in a way that makes the room feel too quiet.
Heath settles.
I take Maya’s hand fully free and place it gently on the blanket near his hip, close enough that if he wakes, he will feel she was there. Then I slide one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees.
She is lighter than she should be.
That irritates me too.
She mutters something when I lift her. Her head falls against my shoulder, then jerks slightly as her body remembers that being carried is not a situation she has agreed to.
“There you are,” I murmur. “I wondered how long that would take.”
Her eyes open halfway.
Not sharp yet. Sleep-heavy. Confused. Too soft for her own safety.
Then she sees me.
The softness doesn't vanish completely, but it tries.
“Put me down,” she whispers.
“No.”
Her brow pinches. “Stefano.”
“If you wake the children, I will take that personally.”
That keeps her quiet. She cares more about Heath sleeping than winning this argument.
Useful.
Dangerous.
She turns her head slightly, looking toward the bed. “Is he okay?”
“For now.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the accurate one.”
Her gaze drifts to Heath and Erin, both still asleep. She watches them with the strained tenderness of someone trying to leave part of herself behind without bleeding on the floor.
“Bellini says the fever should break if the medicine keeps working,” I say. “Omar has the schedule. Two staff members assigned. No one enters without his approval or yours.”
Her eyes return to me.
Even half-asleep, she catches the important piece. “Mine?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you would become unbearable if I didn’t.”
Her mouth almost moves.
Not a smile.
Too tired for that.
Close enough.
I carry her into the hall. Omar stands aside as we pass, and to his credit, he says nothing. His eyes move from Maya’s face to mine, then away again, as if he has decided survival depends on witnessing less.
Wise man.
Maya’s head rests against my shoulder for three steps before she notices and lifts it with visible effort. “I can walk.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then put me down.”
“No.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrow, but the effect is ruined by how badly she is fighting to keep them open. “You’re insufferable.”
“Frequently.”
The hall is dim, lit low for the night. Guards posted at each end straighten as we pass, then look away quickly.
They know better than to stare. Not because Maya is asleep in my arms. Because she is Maya, and I have made enough corrections in this house and outside it for men to understand curiosity has limits.
Her body softens again despite her best efforts.
“I meant to stay awake,” she mutters.
“You failed.”
“I was watching him.”
“He is being watched.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
She is quiet for several steps.
Then, softer, “Thank you.”
The words land harder than they should.
Not because gratitude is rare. I have had men thank me while kneeling in blood. I have had women thank me for favors that cost me nothing and saved them everything. I have had families thank me for protection they would not have needed if my world didn't exist in the first place.
Maya thanking me is different.
She doesn't give the words because they are expected. She doesn't soften them to manipulate me. She doesn't like giving them at all. I feel that in the tension that moves through her as soon as she says it.
It costs her.
That makes it worth more.
I look down at her. “For what?”
Her lashes lower, then lift again. “Helping him.”
“He needed a doctor.”
“And you called one.”
“It is my house.”
I could point out that she came to me because she had no phone.
I could remind her that every useful thing that happened today happened because the structure of my house allowed it.
I could make her gratitude uncomfortable enough that she retreats into anger, because anger is what she understands from me and what I understand from her.
Instead, I smile.
Slowly.
“Careful, Maya.”
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“If you are grateful, I may expect a reward.”
For half a second, she only stares at me.
Then the sleep clears enough for suspicion to return.
“There it is,” she whispers.
“There what is?”
“The trap.”
“I prefer opportunity.”
“You would.”
“I am generous that way.”
Her mouth finally curves, faint and tired and reluctant. “I should have known you would be sneaky about it.”
“Sneaky?”
“You waited until I was exhausted and emotionally compromised.”
She gives a quiet, breathless laugh that she seems too tired to stop.
The sound moves through me with more force than it should and I nearly stop walking.
“What kind of reward?” she asks.
Interesting.
She meant to sound sharp. Suspicious. Defensive.
But sleep has sanded the edges down, and something warmer slips through. Not permission, not exactly. Not invitation in the clean sense. But curiosity. Awareness. The echo of a kiss neither of us has mentioned since the car.
I look at her mouth.
She notices.
Of course she does.
“The kind you can agree to when you are awake enough to mean it,” I say.
Her eyes search mine.
For once, she seems uncertain whether to fight me or believe me. I enjoy both possibilities.
“I’m awake,” she says.
“No.”
“I am.”
“You are being carried down a hallway because you fell asleep sitting upright beside a feverish child.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“It proves enough.”
She frowns. “That sounds almost respectful.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“There he is.”
I shift her higher in my arms as we turn toward the guest corridor. Her hand, which had been loosely curled against her own stomach, moves to my chest on instinct. Not to push away. To steady herself.
She notices a second after I do.
Her fingers tense.
I do not comment.
Some victories are better left unannounced.
“I’ll reward you,” she says finally.
The words stop me this time.
Only for a breath.
Omar is no longer behind us. The hall is empty except for the two guards posted near the far corner, both suddenly fascinated by the wall. Maya’s eyes are half-lidded, but they stay on mine with enough awareness to make the moment dangerous.
“You should be more careful with offers like that,” I say.
“I didn’t say tonight.”
“No.”
“And I didn’t say what the reward was.”
“No.”
“I could reward you by not trying to stab you for twenty-four hours.”
“That would be a disappointing prize.”
“You’re hard to please.”
“Not impossible.”
Her mouth opens. Then closes. Good.
She heard the sentence exactly as I intended.
The flush that touches her face is faint in the low light, but I see it. I am always going to see it now. That is becoming a problem I am less interested in solving than I should be.
She exhales, annoyed. “You are awful.”
“Yes.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“And arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“And opportunistic.”
“Especially when rewarded.”
Her eyes narrow again, but she is fading. I can feel the fight leaving her body in small increments, her weight settling more heavily against me no matter how much pride tries to hold her upright.
“Fine,” she whispers.
“Fine?”
“You get a reward.”
I look down at her. “That sounds dangerously close to an agreement.”
“It is.”
“Say it clearly.”
Her eyes almost close. “No.”
“Maya.”
“I said what I said.”
I smile despite myself.
That is the moment she loses the battle with sleep again.
Not all at once. She fights it with admirable spite, blinking hard, mouth tightening as if she can glare exhaustion into submission. Then her head drops against my shoulder, her hand still caught in my shirt, and the tension drains from her body by degrees.
I reach her door before she is fully under.
It opens before I touch the handle. A guard on the inside corridor must have called ahead, because one of the housemaids stands there, pale and silent, with the bed turned down and a glass of water on the nightstand.
I give her a look.
She disappears.
Maya stirs when I carry her inside. “Children?”
“Asleep.”
“Heath?”
“Watched.”
“Erin?”
“Also.”
“Omar?”
“Unfortunately alive.”
Her mouth moves against my jacket.
That might be a smile.
I lower her onto the bed carefully. She resists when I try to release her, fingers tightening once in my shirt, not enough to hold me but enough that I feel it.
For a moment, I stay leaned over her.
Too close.
She is half-asleep, hair spread over the pillow, face softer than she would allow if she were conscious enough to control it. The woman who threatened me in my study is still there. The agent. The sister. The aunt. The liar. The weapon. All of it remains.
But there is also this.
Exhaustion.
Trust she didn't mean to give.
A promise about a reward she will probably regret when the sun is up.
I should step back.
Instead, I reach down and brush a strand of hair from her cheek.
Her eyes open just enough to find mine.
“Don’t look so smug,” she murmurs.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Perhaps a little.”
“Sneaky,” she whispers again.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it, “Thank you.”
I go still.
The second thank-you is worse than the first.
The first was for the doctor. For Heath. For action taken under pressure.
This one is for carrying her.
For not waking the children.
For putting her down gently when we both know I am capable of being anything but.
I let my fingers pause near her cheek, then withdraw.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
She is asleep before the words fully settle.
For several seconds, I stand beside the bed and look at her.
This is unwise.
That is the cleanest word for it. Omar would choose something more dramatic. Reckless. Stupid. Dangerous. All accurate, but not precise enough. Unwise covers the shape of the problem without pretending I intend to stop.
Maya Reeves is in my house for five days.
Three have passed.
Leon is moving men south. The Bureau is looking for her. The twins are beginning to trust her. Omar is beginning to tolerate her. I am beginning to want things that will make this entire arrangement harder to end cleanly.
Unwise.
I turn toward the door.
Before I leave, I look back once.
She sleeps on her side, one hand curled near her face, the other resting over the blanket as if still searching for a feverish child’s hand.
Tomorrow, she will remember the reward.
She will likely try to renegotiate it.
I smile and turn out the light.
Let her try.