4. Talia
Chapter 4
Talia
“I ’m so sorry.” I whisper the words against Max’s skin, feeling the fever that’s starting to take hold. “Please forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive, svetik moy ,” he whispers back. “This is not your fault.”
I cry harder at his words. I can’t imagine the pain he’s in right now, and instead of lashing out at me, he’s trying to comfort me. If I didn’t already know I was in love with him, this moment would’ve made it abundantly clear. He saved me. He willingly let them destroy his beautiful hand to save me the horror of being raped. I don’t even know how to begin to thank him for that kind of sacrifice, but it’s not going to stop me from trying.
Cupping his face, I kiss his forehead again and say, “Thank you for saving me. I’m so sorry this is what it cost, though.”
His body trembles, and I worry that he might be going into shock. I can’t see him. I can’t see anything in this pitch-black darkness, and I want to scream at how helpless I feel. I don’t know how to fix him. I don’t know what I can do to lessen the pain, and I don’t know how long he can survive with his hand like this.
“At least they didn’t get my thumb,” he says, and I let out a shaky breath and nod, even though he can’t see it.
“Mateo stopped them,” I say. “I don’t know what he said to his dad, but he convinced him to stop.”
Gently guiding his head so it’s resting in my lap, I run my fingers through his hair and lean my back against the hard wall. Despite the heat that I can feel radiating off of him, his body still trembles.
“I need you to hang on, Max. I know it hurts, but I need you to fight through it and stay with me.” My voice shakes as another sob escapes. “Please don’t die.”
“Trying not to,” he says, and the pain in his voice is so palpable I can feel its presence all around us. A physically fit person would’ve been knocked on their ass at having four fingers dislocated, but he didn’t go into this in peak condition. He went into it after almost seven weeks of captivity and abuse. The odds are not good. Too many things can go wrong, and without medical attention, I don’t know how long he can last.
His body relaxes, head tilting slightly to the side, and I know he’s passed out. The steady sound of his breathing is the only thing that keeps me from screaming. Resting my hand against the top of his head so I can keep touching him without disturbing the few precious moments of relief he’s going to get, I close my eyes and beg whoever may be listening to please spare Max’s life and to help us get the hell out of here.
My eyes jerk open at the gut-wrenching groan that Max gives. He’s curled in on himself, but the light is still out, and I can’t see him or how bad his hand has gotten. I remember when Dima dislocated a finger playing football in high school and how unbelievably painful it was for him. Max’s bones may not have been broken, but they were forced out of alignment. The ligaments were most likely torn, and now his bones are pressing against nerve endings, causing a relentless, agonizing sort of pain that’s not going to let up. I imagine it’s the kind of pain that would slowly drive a person insane.
“I’m right here,” I say, lying down next to him and cradling my body around his so I’m hugging his back against my chest.
“The pain,” he groans as fresh tears run down my cheeks at hearing him suffer.
“I’m so sorry, Max. I’m right here, though, and I’m not going anywhere. Our families are coming for us, and they’ll get you to a doctor who can fix your hand, and I’ll help you any way that I can. Then, when you’re all better, you’re going to play me that song you promised me, okay?”
He lets out a moan at my words, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the pain or because the memory of the promise hurts him too much to think about, but I need him to cling to something, and my song is the first thing that popped in my head, so that’s what I use.
“You promised me,” I say, resting my face next to his so our cheeks are touching and I’m spooning his much larger body from behind.
“I don’t know if I can.” His words are nothing but a shaky whisper, but I hear every one of them, and it makes me cling to him even tighter.
“You will,” I say, putting all the determination I can into those words, willing him to believe me. “We’re getting out of here, Max. I didn’t just meet you for you to be ripped away from me. I won’t allow that to happen. I refuse to let you go, and I want to hear my song. No one’s ever written me a song before. You’ve gotten my hopes up about it, so I’m not letting you go back on your word.”
I scoot my arm under his head so he can use it as a pillow and keep my cheek pressed against his, not wanting to lose contact with him. I’m not sure if it’s his tears or mine that I feel, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he’s alive and still trying to fight to remain that way. That’s all I care about. I meant what I said about being there for him as he recovers. I’ll do whatever he needs me to do to help him through this. It’s because of me that his hand is like this, and I’m not leaving his side unless he tells me to. Even then, I’m not so sure I’d be able to walk away. Max has gotten under my skin and into my heart, and now that he’s here, I don’t ever want him to leave.
I kiss his cheek and try not to worry about how warm his skin still feels. There’s no way to know how much time has passed since we were left alone, but I’m guessing it’s been several hours.
“You can survive this, Max.” I whisper the words against his cheek, feeling the scruff of his beard on my skin. “I know you can.”
His soft moan lets me know he’s at least coherent enough to still understand me. The pain must be all-consuming, and since it’s impossible for me to take it from him, I decide to try and take him out of it.
“Did I tell you about the time Allie and I tried to sneak off the property?” Knowing he needs to save his strength, I don’t wait for an answer. I just keep talking while I hold him. I tell him all about the time I was seventeen and the break for freedom that was always doomed to fail.
“Allie wanted to go to a party in the city,” I say, “and I wasn’t about to let her wander off alone. My brothers caught us before we’d even stepped a toe off the property. We were trying to figure out how to scale the eight-foot fence when Dima stepped out of the woods with Bran right behind him.”
I give a soft laugh at the memory.
“They were furious. Bran might not be able to yell at me with a voice, but he ripped me a new one in sign language, and the guilt I felt was more than enough to ensure I never tried anything like it again.”
“Good,” Max says, the word clipped and barely more than a whisper, but I hear it all the same. “Not safe,” he adds.
I kiss his cheek. “I know. I never seriously tried to make a break for it. Deep down, I knew there were reasons for the precautions my family took. My dad isn’t a dramatic person. He’s not the type to have that kind of security without having a good reason for it.”
With nothing but my touch to guide me, I run my fingers over the side of his face, trying to soothe him while memorizing every line of his face. “Believe me, Max, I’d give anything for us to be safely behind that fence right now.”
When I lift up to adjust myself, he reaches back with his uninjured hand to grab onto my thigh. “Don’t go.”
My heart breaks at the desperation and pain that still laces every word he speaks.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise him. After readjusting my arm and making sure he’s as comfortable as possible, I lay my head back down next to his. “I’m not leaving you, and Miguel is going to have to go through me to get to you. I won’t allow that bastard to hurt you again.”
“Don’t you dare,” he whispers. “Don’t risk yourself for me.”
“You need to rest,” I remind him. “Stop worrying.”
I know he wants to argue but lacks the strength to do so. My fingers run over his forehead, brushing back the hair that’s fallen. His skin is burning up, and I’m both terrified and desperate to see what his hand looks like. It looked horrible before the lights went out, and I can only imagine how much worse it’s gotten.
While we wait for the door to open again, I let go of him long enough to blindly feel my way back to where I think our last bottle of water is. My hands scrape along the rough concrete as it digs into my knees. My frustration at not being able to see is enough to make me want to scream. I bite my lip to hold it in, knowing Max needs me to be strong, and slowly run my hands along the floor again, going over the same space that I’m pretty sure I’ve hit twice already. When my fingers finally hit the plastic bottle, I sigh with relief and scoot back over to where I think Max is.
It takes me a few seconds to find him, but as soon as I do, I lift his head and put my leg under him so he’s tilted up enough to take a drink. Uncapping the bottle, I use my fingers to guide it to his mouth. He starts to shake his head, and I know he’s going to argue that I need to drink first.
“You first,” I tell him. “I’ll drink after you.”
Using his left hand, he grabs onto the bottle and takes a drink. I listen to his swallows, and he pushes it away after only three.
“You need more,” I say, trying to bring it back to his lips.
“I’m not taking all of it.”
“Just drink a bit more. There’s no way that was half the bottle.” When he doesn’t reach for it, I say, “Please, Max.”
He relents and drinks some more before pushing it away and insisting I have the rest. I tell him I will, but all I do is take a small sip and then set it aside, saving the last half for him. The pain is too intense for him to notice that I’m not still drinking.
Keeping his head in my lap, I stroke his hair and tell him stories about growing up near the ocean. I tell him about fishing with my brothers and the bad storm we once got caught in. He doesn’t say anything, but anytime I stop talking, he squeezes my hand, urging me to keep going, so I do. I talk for what feels like hours, until my throat is raw and I’m tempted to take another drink of water, but then the door opens and we’re blinded by the light.
Slowly peeling my eyes open, I get my first look at Max’s hand and then immediately wish I hadn’t. It looks awful, a thousand times worse than I’d imagined, and before he can look at it, I cup his cheek and lean closer. When he slowly blinks his eyes open, I make sure that my face is the only thing he can see.
“Don’t look,” I whisper. “You don’t need to see it.”
“Talia,” he starts to say, but I shake my head.
“Max, I need you to trust me on this.”
He wants to argue, I can see it so clearly in his eyes, but I think deep down he knows I’m right. I’m about to let out a sigh of relief when I feel him relax, but it gets trapped in my throat when I hear footsteps approaching. I don’t even get a chance to turn my head to see who it is before a hand roughly grips my hair, flinging me back so I’m no longer hiding his hand from view.
The pained moan that comes from Max when he sees his mangled hand is enough to steal the breath from my lungs. It’s not the sound of someone who’s just in physical pain, although the agony of it must be unbearable at this point—it’s the sound of a man who’s just had a piece of his soul ripped from his chest. For anyone else, this would be horrific, but it would heal and it’d be an injury that would eventually turn into nothing more than a minor annoyance and maybe early-onset arthritis. But for Max, this is his worst fear come to life. They didn’t just ruin his hand—they destroyed a part of him that he might not ever be able to get back.
Miguel laughs, pulling my attention away from Max, and I swear if I had anything that could be used as a weapon, I would kill this asshole without a second thought.
“Get away from him!” I yell. His eyes narrow at me, but I’m past the point of worrying about my own ass right now. “You fucking jackass, don’t you dare try and touch him!”
He rears back like he’s going to slap me, but when Mateo shouts his name, he stops mid-strike. The pure hate radiating off him has me almost curling in on myself, but I force myself to not look away. There’s a promise in that look, and he knows I see it—a promise that Mateo won’t always be around to keep him in line. One day it’ll just be him walking through that door, and he’s going to make sure I regret mouthing off to him.
Right now, he can’t hurt us, though, and that’s all I can allow myself to worry about. I keep my body hunched over Max, refusing to let this bastard near him. Miguel gives me one last furious look before turning his back on us and leaving the room.
Max whispers my name, and I quickly bring my lips to his forehead. “I swear it’s going to be okay,” I say, hoping like hell it’s not a lie. “It just looks so bad because we haven’t been able to stop the swelling.”
He lets out a soft huff of air, and I know it’s his way of calling me on my bullshit. The truth is I have no idea what I’m saying. His hand is swollen up to more than twice its size, it’s a dark shade of red, and the swelling extends down his forearm. His beautiful, long fingers are misshapen and bent at odd angles, and I’m having a hard time believing it can be fixed.
Mateo steps closer. He’s carrying our food and more water, but the thought of eating just makes me feel like I’m going to be sick. He sets it all down by my feet and leans closer, reaching for Max’s hand.
Max groans and keeps his hand cradled against his chest. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Mateo stops reaching for him and says, “I’m just checking to see how bad it is.”
“Look at it,” Max growls. “It’s fucking ruined.”
Mateo sighs and runs his eyes over Max. It’s a detached perusal, like he’s quickly sizing up all his injuries and calculating how bad it is. Whatever conclusion he comes to, he keeps it from affecting his expression. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s so bad and he’s worried I’ll get hysterical or because it’s not nearly as bad as I think it is. I’m guessing it’s the former, but desperately hoping it’s the latter.
“Will your family come for you?”
Max forces out a soft laugh. “Fuck you. If I was going to turn on my family, I would’ve done it before you ruined my hand.”
Mateo’s quiet for a second before he says, “I’m not asking you to turn on your family. I’m asking if you think they’ll get here in time to save you.”
Keeping his head on my lap, Max looks up at him. “Why do you care?”
Mateo’s jaw tightens, the only emotion he allows himself to show and says, “My father and I disagree on a few things.”
It’s obvious by his tone that he’s not going to elaborate. He stands back up and straightens his suit jacket. He’s all freshly washed skin and nice-smelling clothes, while Max and I are probably making his eyes water with the scents wafting off us. Even though he’s sparkly clean and handsome, Mateo does nothing for me. Every other man will always fall short to the one whose head is lying in my lap.
He waves a hand at the food and water. “Make sure he eats and drinks,” he tells me. Knowing it could be hours before he comes back again, I ask if I can use the bathroom. I very carefully help Max up and then quickly use the bathroom after Mateo uncuffs me.
When I come back, Mateo says, “I’ve ordered Miguel to stay away. To disobey me is death, but his hatred for you might override whatever common sense he has. I’ll do my best to make sure he doesn’t come in here again.”
“Thank you,” I tell him as he starts to walk away. I know he’s partly responsible for us being here, but I still appreciate what he’s done, and I’ll take all the help we can get.
He meets my eyes and gives me a small nod. When he walks out, he leaves the light on for us. I’m immensely grateful that I won’t have to try and feed Max in the dark. Grabbing our plates and water, I put them beside me and lift Max’s head back onto my lap.
“You didn’t drink the water,” he says, looking over at the half-empty bottle that I’d left for him.
“You need it more than me,” is all I say before pinching off a piece of bread and bringing it to his lips.
“I’m not hungry,” he says, trying to turn his face.
“You have to eat. You need your strength.”
“The pain is making me nauseated,” he admits. “I keep waiting for it to die down or at least dull a little bit, but it just keeps getting worse.”
“Maybe eating will help the nausea. Please try. You’ve survived too much to give up now.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. “Not giving up. Just don’t want to be sick on you.”
I give as big of a smile as I can mange. “Let’s be honest. It wouldn’t make me smell any worse.”
The corner of his mouth lifts up, the barest hint of a smile through all the pain he’s feeling. “You could never smell bad to me.”
“Such a liar,” I whisper, pushing the piece of bread back to his mouth. This time, he opens and takes a bite, chewing slowly before swallowing it down. I keep feeding him in between sips of water until his plate is empty and he’s drank an entire bottle. Only then do I reach for my own plate. I eat while he closes his eyes, exhausted from the simple process of eating. My fingers run through his hair until his breathing steadies and deepens and I know he’s fallen asleep.
I hope for his sake that it lasts for hours. Now that he’s out, I take a better look at his hand, not daring to touch it for fear of waking him or causing him more pain. The skin is pulled tight from the swelling and shiny in places. The coloring is a deep red that’s starting to turn purple in places, and just the sight of his damaged fingers has tears coming to my eyes.
He did this for me. He willingly gave them his hand, knowing that it could very well damage it for life and ruin his ability to play the piano. He risked losing something he loves, something that’s deeply ingrained in who he is, and he did it to protect me—a woman he just met a few weeks ago. He doesn’t owe me anything. He could’ve let them hurt me, and many men would have, but he didn’t, and I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay him for a sacrifice like that.
Leaning closer, I press my lips lightly to his forehead. Being careful to not wake him, I whisper, “I will love you for the rest of my life, Max Melnikov.”
I keep holding him while he sleeps, but it isn’t long before the pain wakes him up again. The next twenty-four hours are the hardest I’ve ever endured. A cold sweat breaks out on his skin, but he still burns with a fever. The pain never lets up, and I watch helplessly as the strength fades from him and the light slowly goes out from his beautiful grey eyes.
“Don’t you dare give up,” I tell him, knowing it’s getting harder and harder for him to fight the constant agony and that it’s taking its toll on him in more ways than one. The physical pain is bad enough, but the mental anguish must be just as overwhelming. Every few hours, his body gives up and allows him to sleep, but it’s never for long, and it’s never enough. Mateo is the only one who comes in here now, and every time he drops off more food and water, he eyes Max with an increasingly worried look on his once unreadable face.
“I wish you’d go back to wearing an unreadable mask,” I say on his next visit as I continue to run my fingers through Max’s hair. He keeps dipping in and out of consciousness, seeming more delirious by the hour, and the fear that grips my heart is unrelenting.
Mateo’s dark eyes meet mine. “You’d better hope your family gets here soon.”
“Why do you care?”
He arches a dark brow at me. “Who says I do?”
“I’m too tired to play games.” It’s probably not a good idea to piss off the boss’s son, but the second I heard the loud pops of them dislocating Max’s fingers, I stopped giving a fuck. “You’re not like them, or at least you have enough sense to know that this is only guaranteeing your deaths. You fucked up going against our families, and I think you know that.”
He’s quiet for several seconds, and when he does speak, it’s not at all what I’m expecting. “I’ve always known that, but my hands were tied.”
I feel nothing but pity for the man in front of me. He’s a part of this, whether he wants to be or not, but he’s also helped us, and I won’t forget that kindness. The only thing I can offer him in return is a simple, “If I have any say in it, I’ll ask that they spare your life when the time comes.”
The corner of his mouth lifts up, but it’s much closer to a grimace than a smile. “I always knew I wouldn’t live a long life. I’ve made my peace with it.”
He wipes all emotion from his face, reverting back to the mask that he’s probably been wearing since he was a kid. With nothing more than a quick nod, he walks back out, leaving us alone again.
I look down at Max. His eyes are open, but they’re glazed over, and I know he isn’t focusing on anything. His skin is clammy but also hot to the touch, and I hope what I said to Mateo is true. I hope our families get here in time and burn this cartel to the ground.
“Hang on, Max,” I whisper against his skin. “Hang on for me.”