Chapter 17 - Maksim
Watching someone you care about help bandage gunshot wounds shouldn’t be the moment you realize you’re completely gone for them, but here we are.
I drive us back to Ravenshollow in relative silence while we both work through what happened at the docks.
Alyssa stares out the passenger window like the suburbs have suddenly become the most fascinating thing.
Her hands are still stained with traces of blood from helping the injured men, and every few minutes, she flexes her fingers like she’s trying to work out invisible tension.
“You did good today,” I tell her as we pull through the estate gates.
“I didn’t do anything special. Just basic first aid.”
“You ran toward danger instead of away from it. That’s not nothing.”
She turns to look at me for the first time since we left the warehouse. “I was more scared for you than of the situation. Isn’t that insane? I could’ve been shot if one of those men was still lurking around, but all I could think of was getting to you.”
I can’t stop the smile that starts at the corner of my mouth. “That says you care about me.”
“I do care about you. More than I should, considering we barely know each other.”
The admission sends warmth spreading through my chest, but the adrenaline from the gunfight has finally worn off, leaving behind the familiar ache that comes after violence.
My shoulders feel like they’re carved from concrete, and there’s a persistent knot between my shoulder blades that’s been building for hours.
“You look exhausted,” Alyssa observes as we walk through the front door.
“Long day.”
“When’s the last time you actually relaxed? I mean really relaxed, not just sat still while planning your next move.”
I consider the question seriously, trying to remember the last time I wasn’t thinking about business, family obligations, or potential threats. The answer is depressing.
“I honestly can’t remember.”
“That’s what I thought.” She sets her purse down and adds, “Go upstairs and change into something comfortable. Meet me in the living room in ten minutes.”
“Alyssa—”
“No arguments. You’ve spent all day taking care of everyone else. Let someone take care of you for once.”
The authoritative tone in her voice is so unexpected that I actually obey without protest. Twenty minutes later, I find her in the main living room with the furniture rearranged and soft music playing from the sound system.
“Sit on the floor,” she instructs as she gestures to a cushion she’s placed in front of the sofa.
“What are you planning?”
“Massage therapy. I took a class in college, and you look like you haven’t relaxed your shoulders in about a decade.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to. Besides, after today, I think we could both use something normal and peaceful.”
I settle onto the cushion as directed, and within moments, her hands are working at the knots in my shoulders. The tension I’ve been carrying begins to dissolve, and soon, they’re replaced by a different kind of awareness.
“Better?” she asks, soft and close to my ear.
“Much,” I confirm with a grunt as her thumbs find a particularly tight spot. “Where did you learn to do this?”
“It was an elective course. I figured it would be easy credits, but it turned out to be genuinely useful.”
Her hands work across my shoulders and upper back, finding tension I didn’t even realize I was carrying. When she hits a particularly sensitive spot, I can’t suppress a low groan of relief.
“Feel good?”
“Too good,” I admit with a sigh.
“Too good how?”
The innocent way she asks the question tells me she has no idea what her touch is doing to me. Her fingers knead the muscles along my spine, and every stroke sends heat spreading through my body before it all collects in my groin.
“Alyssa,” I warn, though I’m not sure if I’m warning her to stop or to continue.
“Relax. Just let me take care of you.”
The tenderness in her voice, combined with the feel of her hands on my body, is rapidly becoming more than I can handle. I need a distraction before I do something stupid like turn around and kiss her senseless.
“Tell me about your family,” I say, grasping for safe conversation topics.
Her hands pause for just a moment before resuming their work. “What about them?”
“You mentioned they weren’t ideal parents. What did you mean by that?”
“Do we really want to get into family trauma right now?”
“I want to know everything about you. The good and the bad.”
She stays quiet for so long that I think she’s going to refuse to answer. When she finally speaks, her voice carries the weight of old pain.
“My mother was a compulsive gambler. Poker, blackjack, horses, lottery tickets—anything she could bet money on. My father was a functional alcoholic who spent most of his time at the local bar pretending his wife wasn’t losing their house payment at the casino.”
“How long did that go on?”
“My entire childhood. They’d have these explosive fights about money, then ignore me for days while they dealt with whatever crisis my mother’s gambling had created this time.
” Her hands work deeper into the muscle, as if the physical motion helps her process the memories.
“I learned early that I couldn’t depend on them for anything important. ”
“Are they still alive?”
“As far as I know. I haven’t spoken to either of them in about four years.”
“What happened four years ago?”
“My mother called asking for money to cover some gambling debts. When I refused, she accused me of being selfish and ungrateful. My father got on the phone and told me I was a disappointment who’d never amount to anything.
” She pauses her massage to readjust her position.
“That was the last conversation we had.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Cutting them out of my life was the best thing I ever did for my mental health.”
The matter-of-fact way she discusses her family’s dysfunction tells me this isn’t the first time she’s had to explain their toxicity to someone. But there’s something else in her voice—a hesitation that suggests she doesn’t share these details lightly.
“Is that why you broke up with Troy?” I ask. “Because his lifestyle reminded you of them?”
“In some ways, yes. The control, the manipulation, the way he made me feel like I was crazy for having reasonable boundaries.” Her hands find a new knot of tension near my neck. “I swore I’d never let myself get trapped in that kind of relationship again.”
“But you stayed with him for three months.”
“Because he was good at hiding it at first. The possessiveness started small—wanting to know where I was, getting jealous when I talked to other people. I told myself it was romantic attention instead of controlling behavior.”
The pain in her voice makes me want to hunt down Troy and show him what real violence looks like. But right now, she needs understanding, not more anger.
“When did you realize it wasn’t romantic?”
“When he started isolating me from my friends. When he began showing up at places uninvited and calling it a ‘surprise.’ He made me feel guilty for having a life that didn’t revolve around him. By the time I recognized the pattern, I was already in too deep to leave easily.”
“What made you finally break it off?”
“That day I stumbled on him surrounded by money and weapons, I went home and looked in the mirror one day and realized I was becoming the same scared, anxious person I’d been as a kid.
Walking on eggshells, constantly trying to avoid setting him off, making myself smaller so he wouldn’t feel threatened.
” Her voice drops to barely above a whisper.
“I refused to live that way again, and staying with him after learning what he truly was would guarantee that I would.”
The strength it must have taken to recognize that pattern and break free from it impresses me more than her rock-climbing skills or her courage under fire. This woman has survived two different forms of systematic emotional abuse and come out fighting.
“I’m proud of you,” I tell her honestly. “For getting away from all of that.”
“Most days I feel like I’m still running from one disaster to the next.”
“Running toward better things isn’t the same as running away from problems.”
Her hands go still for a moment before resuming their work again. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Running toward something better?”
“I think you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. And I think you deserve someone who sees that strength and wants to protect it, not exploit it.”
“Someone like you?”
“I’d like to think so,” I answer.
“Tell me about your family,” she says, clearly wanting to deflect attention from herself. “The good parts, not just the business side.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What were you like as kids? Before all the responsibility and territory disputes and everything else that comes with this life.”
The question makes me smile despite the serious turn our conversation has taken. “Loud. Competitive. Constantly getting into trouble.”
“All six of you?”
“All six of us. Aleksei was the natural leader even then, always trying to keep the rest of us in line. Grigor was the mediator, stopping fights before they escalated. Dmitri was the quiet observer who saw everything and said little.”
“What about you?”
“I was the one who disappeared when things got too intense. If there was family drama or conflict, I’d find somewhere else to be until it blew over.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“It was. But it also felt safer than getting caught in the middle of whatever storm was brewing. I spent most of my twenties traveling, convincing myself I was seeing the world when really I was just avoiding dealing with family obligations.”
“What changed?”
“My brothers started falling in love. Aleksei with Bianca, then Grigor with Seraphina, then Dmitri with Cecily. Watching them find happiness made me realize what I was missing by staying away.”
“You wanted what they had.”
“I wanted to be part of something permanent instead of always passing through.” Her hands move lower on my back, following the line of tension down my spine. “Cecily and Seraphina came from a family situation that makes yours sound functional by comparison.”
“Really? How did they end up with your brothers?”
“Long story involving their father selling one into marriage and the other refusing to be used in the same way. The point is, they understand what it means to choose your family instead of just accepting the one you’re born into.”
“Is that what you did? Choose your family?”
“Eventually. It took me longer than it should have, but I finally realized that running away from problems doesn’t solve them.
It just means you face them alone instead of with people who love you.
You can do that too, you know. You have me now.
You have my family. You don’t have to face things alone anymore. ”
The silence that follows stretches long enough that I wonder if I’ve said too much too soon. When she finally speaks, her voice is thick with emotion.
“That’s a big promise to make to someone you’ve known for a few weeks.”
“It’s not a promise. It’s a fact.”
She leans forward until her forehead rests against the back of my neck, and her breath tickles my skin. “Maksim…”
“I know it’s complicated. I know I’m asking you to trust someone from the same world that hurt you. But I’m not Troy, and I’m not your parents. I see your strength, and I want to add to it, not take from it.”
“You scare me,” she whispers against my neck.
“Why?”
“Because you make me want things I’ve never let myself want before. Stability. Partnership. Someone who actually gives a damn whether I come home at night.”
I turn around on the cushion to face her, and the tears threatening in her green eyes make me want to promise her the world.
“You can have all of those things,” I tell her. “With me, if you’ll let yourself try.”
“What if I’m not good at it? What if I’m too damaged or too independent or too—”
“What if you’re perfect exactly as you are?”
She studies my face like she’s looking for lies or false promises. Whatever she sees must satisfy her, because she nods.
“Okay,” she whispers.
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
The relief that floods through me is so complete that I have to close my eyes for a moment to believe it. When I open them again, she’s watching me with something that looks suspiciously like wonder.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“For what?”
“For trusting me with this. For staying. For being brave enough to let yourself want something good.”
She reaches out and touches my face with fingers that smell like the massage oil she used on my shoulders. “Thank you for catching me when I jumped off that shipping container.”
“Thank you for jumping in the first place.”
We sit there looking at each other, both of us aware that something fundamental has changed between us tonight. The attraction has always been there, but now there’s something deeper—understanding, trust, the beginning of real intimacy.
“I should probably let you get some sleep,” she says eventually, though she makes no move to get up.
“Stay with me tonight,” I hear myself saying. “Not for anything physical, just… stay. I don’t want to be alone, and I don’t think you do either.”
“Maksim…”
“Just to sleep. I have a huge bed, and after today, I think we could both use the comfort of not being alone.”
She bites her lower lip while she considers the request, and I hold my breath waiting for her answer. Finally, she nods.
“Okay. Just to sleep.”
“Just to sleep,” I agree, though we both know it means more than that.