Chapter 9
Maksim
Fucking marshmallows.
She’s a nuisance.
A distraction.
Fucking annoying.
With that sharp mouth and those quick hands. I rub my ribs.
A soft knock comes at the door.
I don’t move from the couch. Just stare at the door.
I know it’s her.
The rain must’ve made her reconsider. Or maybe she realized walking through Bratva territory at night without a car is fucking stupid.
Smart girl.
I push off the couch, cross to the door. I unlock it, pull it open. She’s soaked. Hair plastered to her face, jacket dark with rain. Water drips off her onto the floor, forming a puddle at her feet.
“I need somewhere to stay,” she says. Not asking. Stating.
I lean against the doorframe. “That so?”
“Just for tonight. Until the rain stops.”
“And then what? You walk home in the dark through Russian territory?”
Her jaw tightens. “I’ll figure it out.”
I step aside. “Get in here before you flood my hallway.”
She hesitates—just for a second, then steps past me. I catch that marshmallow scent again, mixed with rain.
I close the door. Lock it.
She stands in the middle of my living room, dripping, arms wrapped around herself. Shivering.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” I say. “Take a shower. Get warm.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re soaked and shaking. Go.”
She doesn’t move.
I sigh, walk past her to my bedroom, grab a towel and one of my shirts from the closet. When I come back, she’s still standing there like a drowned cat.
“Here.” I hold them out.
She hesitates.
“Or do you need my underwear too? I don’t think it would fit.”
She snatches them from my hand and glares, those eyes darkening.
“Bathroom. Now. Before you catch pneumonia and die on my floor.”
“Would be nice,” she murmurs.
She disappears down the hall. A minute later, I hear water running.
I head to the kitchen, pull out my phone. Three missed calls from Vaska. Two texts from Angelo. Nothing I need to deal with right now.
I pour myself vodka. Straight. Let it burn down my throat.
What the fuck am I doing?
I should’ve let her walk. Should’ve locked the door and gone to bed. Instead, I’m playing host to a girl who dug a bullet out of my side and shot a gun out of a window like a pro.
Reckless.
The water shuts off.
I down the rest of the vodka.
She emerges a few minutes later, wearing my shirt. It hangs to mid-thigh on her, sleeves rolled up past her wrists. Her hair’s damp, pushed back from her face. Bare skin and those dark eyes that watch me too closely.
She’s such a plain girl.
“Better?” I ask.
“No.” She tugs at the hem of the shirt. “I don’t want to be here.”
I scoff.
“You hungry?”
“No.”
“You like that word.”
She glares at me, but there’s no heat in it.
I move to the kitchen, start pulling things out of the fridge.
I watch her hover near the couch, arms still wrapped around herself like she’s holding something in. Like she’s afraid if she lets go, she’ll fall apart.
“Sit,” I tell her, pulling out bread, cheese, cold cuts.
She doesn’t sit.
I grab a knife, start slicing the bread. The blade moves smooth across the cutting board, rhythmic. Familiar.
“Why are you being nice to me?” she asks.
I glance up. “Is that what you think this is?”
“You’re making me food.”
“I’m hungry. You’re here.” I shrug. “Might as well feed you too.”
She shifts her weight, and I catch the way her fingers dig into her arms. White-knuckled. Tense.
“Relax, Beda,” I say. “I’m not going to touch you.”
“So you say, yet before you tried to take my pants off.”
Fair point.
I set the knife down, turn to face her fully. “I thought you wanted me. My mistake.”
“Your mistake was assuming.”
“Most women do want me.”
“I’m not most women.”
“Yeah.” I pick up the knife again, keep slicing. “I’m starting to figure that out.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then, “What does that mean? Beda?”
“Trouble.”
“You’re calling me trouble?”
“Aren’t you?”
She doesn’t answer.
I finish making the sandwich, slide the plate across the counter toward her. “Eat.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
We stare at each other. A battle of wills I’m not interested in losing.
Finally, she moves. Walks to the counter, looks at the sandwich then up at me. “You eat it.”
I chuckle. “Think I’m trying to poison you, Beda?”
Her eyebrow twitches.
The silence between us lingers.
She does.
I swipe the sandwich up and take a bite before tossing it back on to the plate. “Eat.”
She stares at the sandwich before slowly picking it up. A soft hum escapes her lips and hits straight to my cock.
Her eyes close.
How long has it been since she’s eaten?
She’s pretty thin.
Her eyes snap open and glare at me.
“You’re staring,” she says around the mouthful.
“You’re in my apartment wearing my shirt. I’ll stare if I want to.”
She swallows hard. “Where am I sleeping?”
“My bed.”
“No.”
I take in a breath. She’s pissing me off with the “no’s.”
“Yes. I won’t touch you. Don’t flatter yourself.”
I add it to hurt her and by the look in her eyes it lands.
I watch her face close off, like shutters slamming down. She sets the sandwich on the plate.
Good.
She should be hurt. Should feel something other than that cold defiance she wears like armor.
“The couch is fine,” she says bitter.
“The couch is shit. You’ll fuck up your back.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do. You’re working for me now, at my bakery. Can’t have you calling in sick because you slept on a couch that’s more decorative than functional.”
Her jaw clenches. “I’m not sleeping in your bed, Maksim.”
“Then we’ll both sleep there. It’s big enough.”
“Yeah, that’s the fucking problem. No.”
I lean against the counter. “You got a better solution?”
“The floor.”
I laugh. Actually laugh. “You’d rather sleep on the floor than share a bed with me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fucking ridiculous.”
“That’s my answer.”
We’re at a standstill. Again. This girl fights me on everything, and part of me—the fucked up part that should know better, finds it fascinating.
Most people don’t tell me no.
She does it like breathing.
“Fine,” I say.
I push off the counter and move toward her.
She stiffens immediately, stepping back on instinct, shoulders squaring like she’s bracing for impact. Like she expects me to grab her. Like she’s already decided how far she’ll let it go.
I don’t touch her.
I pass her instead.
The door handle is cold under my palm as I twist it open. Rain rushes in, sharp and loud, the night spilling into my apartment.
“You can leave,” I say. “I’m not dragging you into my bed.”
I watch her freeze.
Her throat works. I see it. She swallows hard, jaw tightening like she’s holding something back.
She should leave.
She knows it too. I can see the calculation flicker behind her eyes—the exit, the night, the cost of walking out. Pride wars with something heavier. Something uglier.
Then she speaks. “Close the door.”
I turn my head slowly, look at her properly. She’s standing rigid, arms wrapped around herself, chin lifted like she’s daring me to say no.
“What?” I ask.
“I said close the door.”
I don’t move. I study her. The way her fingers dig into her sleeves. The way she’s braced, like she expects this to hurt no matter what she chooses.
“You staying?” I ask, voice flat.
Her lips press together. “Do I have a choice?”
Something shifts in my chest. Sharp. Annoying. Gone as soon as I notice it.
“There’s always a choice, Beda.”
Her voice drops. Flat. Certain. “Not for me there isn’t.”
I hold her gaze another second, then another. Long enough that she doesn’t look away. Long enough that I know this isn’t surrender.
It’s strategy.
I push the door closed. The lock clicks into place, final and loud in the quiet. The apartment feels smaller instantly. Warmer. Like the walls leaned in.
She folds her arms tighter around herself.
“Bedroom’s through there,” I say, nodding down the hall. “I’ll meet you there.”
I watch as she turns, her steps measured as she walks out of view.
I exhale hard.
Why the fuck is my adrenaline spiked?
This fucking girl.
My back hits the door. I close my eyes for a moment.
Inhale.
Exhale.
I push off the door.
I shove the sandwich plate into the fridge, the glass shelf clinking louder than it should. My pulse is still punching bone. I slam the door, lean both palms on the cold stainless steel, and count the seconds it takes to breathe like a normal human.
Five. Ten. Doesn’t work.
She’s in my bed. Not naked, not willing—just pissed off, like a challenge left on the pillow. And I’m standing here acting like I don’t know what to do with myself.
I do know.
She needs to be fucked stupid until her lips don’t know how to form the word no.
But I also want to toss her ass out into the rain and forget the way her pupils dilated when I had her pinned against the wall, the taste of her fear, the way her fingers felt inside my skin.
Both options claw at the same scab. I’m bleeding either way.
I push off the fridge, grab the vodka bottle by the neck, and drink straight from it. The burn is good. The burn is honest.
Doesn’t taste like marshmallows.
The hallway is dark except for the strip of light leaking from under the bedroom door.
I hover outside like the ghost I should be, listening.
No sound. No crying. No footsteps. Just the hum of the building and the rain ticking against the glass.
I nudge the door open.
She’s curled on the far edge of the mattress, knees to chest, facing the window. My shirt swallows her, sleeves bunched in her fist.
Pillows are stacked down the middle—barricade of cotton and denial. I almost laugh. Almost.
I step in. The floor creaks; her shoulders twitch but she doesn’t turn. Good. If she looked at me right now, I’d either crawl over the pillows or put my fist through the wall. Haven’t decided which.
I turn off the lights, strip to boxers, drop my clothes on the chair. Gun under the pillow. The mattress dips when I sit. She freezes tighter, breath held.
“Relax,” I mutter. “I’m not crossing the Great Wall of Ayla.”
She exhales, slow and shaky. “Touch me and I’ll kill you.”