Chapter 18 - Alyssa
Sleeping in the same bed as a dangerous man should terrify me, but waking up in Maksim’s arms feels like the safest place I’ve ever been.
His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek in a steady rhythm that’s become as familiar as my own heartbeat over the past week. We’ve maintained this careful dance of intimacy without crossing lines—sharing his bed for comfort, not sex, though the tension between us grows stronger each night.
“Morning, kitten,” he murmurs against my hair with a voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.” I tilt my head to look at him, noting the way dawn filters through the curtains and sends shards of gold across his face. “Did you sleep well?”
“Better than I have in years.”
The honesty in his admission makes my heart flutter in ways I’m still learning to accept. These past days have created a routine between us that feels surprisingly domestic—shared meals, quiet conversations, stolen moments of closeness that never quite tip over into something more.
His phone vibrates on the nightstand, interrupting the peaceful moment. Maksim reaches for it to check the display like he’s looking for a crisis.
“Dmitri,” he answers before the third ring, “what’s the situation?”
I can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but I watch Maksim’s face change from relaxed to alert in seconds. Whatever his brother is telling him isn’t good news.
“How many?” Maksim asks, sitting up now. “When…? Right. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
He ends the call and turns to me with regret written across his face. “I have to go to the docks. There’s been an incident with one of our shipments.”
“What kind of incident?”
“The kind that requires immediate damage control before it becomes a bigger problem.” He climbs out of bed and reaches for his clothes. “You should stay here today. This might get messy.”
“I want to come with you.”
“Alyssa—”
“I’m part of this now, remember? You said so yourself.” I throw back the covers and stand up. “Besides, hiding here won’t make me any safer if things really go bad.”
He studies my face for a long moment, probably weighing the risks of bringing me along against the risks of leaving me behind. Finally, he nods once.
“Get dressed. And wear something you can move in if necessary.”
Forty minutes later, we’re standing in the main warehouse while Dmitri explains the situation. Three containers from our latest shipment have been compromised by customs officials who weren’t supposed to be looking too closely at our operations.
“Someone tipped them off,” Dmitri declares grimly. “This wasn’t a random inspection. They knew exactly which containers to target.”
“Any idea who?” Maksim asks with a deep-set scowl.
“Working on it. But in the meantime, we need to move the remaining inventory before they decide to expand their investigation.”
What follows is two hours of workers scrambling to relocate sensitive cargo while maintaining the appearance of normal operations. I watch Maksim coordinate the entire process with impressive calm, issuing orders and making decisions with the kind of confidence that comes from years of experience.
The sound of raised voices from the loading dock interrupts the organized activity. Maksim’s entire body goes tense as he recognizes whatever threat is approaching.
“Stay close to me,” he instructs, already moving toward the disturbance.
What we find is a group of men I don’t recognize confronting several of Maksim’s workers. The conversation looks heated, with lots of aggressive gesturing and posturing that screams trouble.
“Friends of yours?” I whisper.
“Former business associates who don’t understand the meaning of ‘no.’”
Maksim approaches the group, and his presence immediately commands attention from everyone involved. I follow at a safe distance, close enough to help if needed but far enough away to avoid becoming a target.
The confrontation that follows is brief but violent.
Someone throws the first punch, and within seconds, the entire loading dock erupts into mayhem.
I watch Maksim handle two attackers at once, demonstrating extensive training, while his workers deal with the others, and I stand there like an idiot, gawking at them as I try to stay out of the line of fire.
When it’s over, three of the intruders are on the ground while the rest have fled.
“Are you hurt?” he asks when he finally reaches my side.
“I’m fine. But Maksim, I can’t keep being a liability in situations like this.”
“You’re not a liability.”
“I’m a person who can’t defend herself when violence breaks out. In your world, that’s the definition of liability.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off before he can start.
“Teach me to fight.” It’s a demand, not a request. “Teach me to protect myself so you don’t have to worry about my safety when things get dangerous.”
“Alyssa—”
“I’m serious. I want to learn how to handle myself in your world instead of just being someone you have to protect.”
The internal conflict plays out across his face as he weighs his desire to keep me safe against the practical reality of our situation. Finally, he nods with obvious reluctance.
“Fine. But we do this properly. Real training, not just a few self-defense moves.”
“Deal.”
Two days later, I’m standing in the private gym at Ravenshollow wearing workout clothes and trying not to feel intimidated by Maksim’s obvious expertise.
He’s changed into athletic gear that shows off his impressive physique, and the sight of him in form-fitting clothes does things to my concentration that aren’t helpful for learning combat techniques.
“We’ll start with basic defensive positions,” he explains as he demonstrates a stance that looks deceptively casual. “For someone your size, the goal isn’t to win fights; it’s to create opportunities to escape.”
“What if escape isn’t an option?”
“Then you fight dirty and aim for vulnerable spots. Eyes, throat, groin, knees. Any place that will cause enough pain to give you an advantage.”
Over the next hour, I learn how to block punches, break holds, and strike effectively with limited strength. Maksim is a patient teacher, and he corrects my form and encourages my progress as we go.
“Better,” he praises as I successfully execute a defensive move that sends him stumbling backward. “But you’re still telegraphing your intentions. Try to keep your face neutral until the moment you strike.”
“Like this?” I attempt the move again, this time managing to surprise him enough that he actually has to work to counter my attack.
“Exactly like that. You’re a natural at this.”
“I have good motivation to learn.”
“Which is?”
“Staying alive in your world.”
The reminder of why I need these skills brings a shadow across his face, but he doesn’t argue with my logic.
“Again,” he instructs. “This time, don’t think about what you’re doing. Just react.”
We continue practicing defensive techniques, moving from basic blocks to more complex maneuvers that require us to grapple. Each time he pins me or I manage to escape his hold, the physical contact sends electricity through my entire body.
“You’re getting distracted,” he observes after I fail to execute a simple counter-move.
“I’m concentrating.”
“No, you’re thinking about something else entirely.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize how transparent I’ve become. The way he looks at me—like he knows exactly what’s going through my mind—makes my pulse race.
“Focus, Alyssa. In a real fight, distraction gets you killed.”
“Right. Focus.”
But focusing becomes increasingly difficult as our training sessions continue over the next few days.
Learning to fight with someone requires a level of physical closeness that makes it impossible to ignore the attraction simmering between us.
When he adjusts my stance, his hands linger on my hips.
When I successfully pin him during grappling practice, the moment stretches longer than necessary before he breaks free.
“I think you’re ready for the next phase,” he announces after a particularly successful session.
“Which is?”
“Weapons training.”
The words chill me to the core. Images of Troy pointing that gun at my chest flash through my mind, bringing back all the fear and helplessness I felt in that moment.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” I admit.
“You need to be comfortable with firearms if you’re going to be part of this life. Not just comfortable—competent.”
“What if I freeze up? What if I can’t handle it?”
Maksim moves closer and brings his hands up to frame my face. “Then we’ll work through it together until you can. But I think you’re stronger than you realize.”
The confidence in his voice gives me the courage I need to nod my agreement.
The private shooting range in the basement of Ravenshollow is more extensive than I expected, complete with targets at various distances and enough firepower to outfit a small army. Maksim selects a pistol from the collection and checks it before handing it to me.
“It’s not loaded,” he assures me as I accept the weapon with a grimace. “We’ll start with just getting you comfortable holding it.”
The weight of the gun feels wrong in my palm; it’s too heavy and too light at the same time. My hands shake despite my efforts to remain calm, and the memory of Troy’s weapon pointed at my chest makes my stomach roil.
“Breathe,” Maksim instructs. “It’s just a tool, like any other. It only has power if you give it power.”
“Troy made it seem like it had all the power in the world.”
“Troy was a coward who used weapons to intimidate people weaker than himself. That’s not what we’re doing here.”
His steady energy behind me helps calm my racing heart. When he places his hands over mine to adjust my grip, the heat in his touch anchors me to the present moment instead of letting me spiral into traumatic memories.
“Better?” he asks.
“Better.”
We spend the next hour on basic handling—loading, unloading, safety procedures, and proper stance. By the time we move to actual shooting, I’m feeling more confident and less likely to panic at the sound of gunfire.
“Remember what I taught you about breathing,” Maksim says as I line up my first shot. “Slow inhale, hold, squeeze the trigger on the exhale.”
The first shot goes wide and misses the target completely. So does the second. And the third.
“Don’t get frustrated,” he advises. “This takes practice.”
“I’m terrible at this.”
“You’re learning.”
By the end of the session, I’m actually hitting the target with some consistency, though my groupings are still scattered across the paper. Maksim seems pleased with the progress, but I know I have a long way to go before I’ll be truly competent.
“Tomorrow we’ll work on accuracy,” he promises as we clean up. “There’s a technique that will help you hit the bullseye consistently.”
“What kind of technique?”
“You’ll see.”
The next day’s session starts the same way, with me struggling to group my shots in any meaningful pattern. Maksim watches patiently as I empty magazine after magazine with mediocre results, offering suggestions for improvement that help marginally but don’t solve the fundamental problem.
“I think I know what the issue is,” he finally announces. “You’re overthinking the mechanics instead of trusting your instincts.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come here.” He positions himself behind me with his chest pressed against my back as his arms come around me to guide the pistol. “Stop trying to aim with your eyes and start aiming with your whole body.”
His breath tickles my ear as he speaks, and the solidness of his body against mine makes concentration nearly impossible. When his hands cover mine on the grip and he adjusts my position, every nerve ending in my body screams to life.
“Feel the weight of the weapon,” he tells me. “Let it become an extension of yourself instead of something foreign you’re trying to control.”
The low rumble of his voice, combined with his proximity, sends heat pooling in my stomach. When he helps me raise the pistol to firing position, his hips press against mine, making my breath catch in my throat.
“Now breathe with me,” he instructs. “In… hold… and squeeze.”
The shot rings out, and this time, it hits the target dead center. But I barely notice the accuracy because all of my attention is focused on the way Maksim’s body feels pressed against mine.
“Perfect,” he praises.
We repeat the process several more times, and each shot finds its mark while the tension between us builds to an almost unbearable level. His body molds against mine even more with each instruction, and his hands guide mine with increasing intimacy.
“Again,” he orders.
This time, when we go through the breathing exercise, his lips brush against my ear during the final instruction. The contact is barely there, but it’s enough to make a soft moan escape before I can pull it back.
Maksim goes completely still behind me, and his hands tighten on my hip bones. For a moment, neither of us moves or speaks.
“Alyssa,” he finally grits out.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
I turn in his arms, the pistol forgotten as I look up into his burning blue eyes. The weapon clatters to the floor, but neither of us pays attention to it.
“Yes, I do. I want you to touch me, Maksim. I want you to make me feel the way you did that night at the hotel. Like the night we met at the club.”
“You said that was a mistake.”
“I was scared,” I explain breathlessly. “I’m not scared anymore.”
He searches my face for any sign of doubt, and whatever he sees there must convince him that I mean what I’m saying because his hands come up to frame my face. “Only if you’re sure, kitten.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
“Then tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
The command in his voice makes heat flood through me, and I know that whatever happens next will change everything between us forever.
“Touch me,” I breathe. “Please, Maksim. I need you to touch me.”