Chapter 13 Maksim
Maksim
She’s quiet.
Ayla sits in the passenger seat with her spine straight, hands folded in her lap like she’s afraid to touch anything. The road stretches out ahead of us—long, empty, unlit. City lights died ten minutes ago. We’re deep enough now that even the radio has dissolved into static.
She’s wearing the clothes.
Didn’t even tell me no when I told her to put them on.
Designer fits her the way it’s supposed to; like it was waiting for her body to catch up. Black jeans that hug her hips, boots that actually protect her feet, a fitted jacket that sharpens her lines instead of swallowing them. She looks expensive.
Dangerous.
Out of place.
Her hair is braided tight, pinned up into a neat bun at the base of her skull.
Smart girl.
Nothing loose to grab. Nothing to use against her. She planned for that. My mouth curves. I keep my eyes on the road. Let the silence stretch. Let it press down on her until she can’t pretend it’s normal anymore. Her knee bounces once.
Then stills.
“You’re tense,” I say casually.
“I’m fine.”
Lie.
I flick my gaze toward her for half a second. The way her jaw tightens tells me everything I need to know.
“You didn’t ask where we’re going.”
“I assumed you’d tell me when you felt like it.”
Correct.
The car hums beneath us. Tires eat up the miles. Trees close in tighter the farther we go, branches reaching toward the road like they want a look at her too.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. Once. Twice.
“You know,” I say, almost conversational, “most people start asking questions by now.”
“I’m not most people.”
No.
She’s not.
I glance at her again. She’s staring straight ahead, eyes alert, cataloging. Exits. Landmarks. The absence of both.
Her breathing is steady, but her pulse gives her away. I can see it in her throat.
“You look good,” I add.
She doesn’t thank me.
“That’s why you made me change, right?” she says. “So I’d be a pretty corpse.”
I laugh. A short sound. Real.
“If I wanted you dead, Ayla, you wouldn’t be sitting in my car.”
Silence snaps back into place, heavier than before.
She swallows.
I let it sit there. Let her chew on it. Let her wonder which answer would scare her more. We drive another mile.
Then another. She shifts in her seat, fingers flexing once, like she’s resisting the urge to reach for her weapon. Her little knife.
“You braided your hair,” I murmur.
Her head turns this time. Sharp. Caught.
I smile without looking at her.
“Good instinct,” I continue. “Most people don’t think that far ahead.”
“What are you going to do to me?” she asks.
There it is.
I slow the car just enough that she notices.
“Depends,” I say. “On how well you move.”
Her breath catches. Just once. I press the accelerator. The trees close in the farther we go.
The road narrows, dirt replacing asphalt, branches arching overhead like ribs. The headlights catch nothing but trunks and shadow, dark shapes stacked against a darker sky. I feel her tension before I hear it—the way her breathing shifts, the way her body goes still in the seat beside me.
Her pulse is so loud. I swear I can hear it.
I slow the car on purpose. Let the engine drop to a crawl. Let the silence start pressing in before we even stop.
Then I kill the engine.
The quiet hits hard. No city hum. No insects. Just wind moving through branches and the faint tick of cooling metal. Her hands curl in her lap. I see it out of the corner of my eye.
She’s bracing.
I keep my hands on the wheel. Stare straight ahead. Make her sit in it.
“Get out,” I say.
She doesn’t move.
I turn my head slowly and look at her.
“Ayla,” I say, keeping my voice even. Patient. “Get out of the car.”
“No.”
My jaw tightens. There it is again.
“That word,” I say quietly.
She meets my eyes, stubborn even now. “You brought me out here to kill me. I’m not making it easy for you.”
I exhale through my nose.
“If I wanted you dead,” I tell her, “you wouldn’t have left your apartment. Quieter. Cleaner. No drive required.”
Her throat bobs.
“Then what do you want?”
I don’t answer the question she’s actually asking.
“I want you to get out of the fucking car.”
We hold there—locked in the dark, two animals measuring who’s going to break first.
She won’t.
So I do.
I open my door. The interior light flares, then dies when I slam it shut. Gravel crunches under my boots as I walk around the front of the car, slow enough to let her track every step.
I open her door. I lean down, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other extended toward her—not as an offer. As a choice.
“Come on, Beda.”
Her eyes drop to my hand. I see what she’s really looking at—the tattoos, the scars threading between them. Evidence. Warnings.
“Where are we?” she asks.
“The woods.”
“I can see that.”
I tilt my head. “Then stop asking stupid questions and get out.”
She doesn’t take my hand. She slides out on her own, boots hitting dirt and dead leaves. The air smells like pine and rot and old rain. She straightens immediately, already scanning.
I close the door behind her and pocket the keys.
She turns in a slow circle. Trees in every direction. No trail. No light. The moon is barely there, useless.
“Walk,” I say.
“Which way?”
I point into the trees. “That way.”
She doesn’t move.
“You want me to just walk into the woods?” she asks. “In the dark?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I step closer. Close enough that I feel her heat, the tension vibrating off her skin.
“Because I told you to.”
Her back hits the car as she retreats without meaning to. The realization flickers across her face—that she let me close the distance.
“This is insane,” she breathes.
“This is a test.”
I lean in just enough that she has to tilt her head to keep eye contact.
“You said you’re not afraid of me,” I murmur. “Prove it.”
“I’m not afraid.”
I watch the lie move through her body before it ever reaches her mouth.
“Oh, Beda, you troublesome little liar.” I tap my finger once against her temple. “You should have never let me in.”
She stiffens, but she tries to hide it.
I smirk. “Walk.”
She doesn’t move.
Her jaw tightens, muscles in her neck pulling taut like she’s bracing for impact. I watch the way she shifts her weight without realizing it—left foot slightly back, ready to spring. Fight-or-flight, but controlled.
“What happens if I don’t?” she asks.
There it is. There’s that fight.
My smirk sharpens. “Then I make you.”
Her breath stutters. Just once. She hides it well, but I see everything now. The way her pupils flare. The way her shoulders stiffen like she’s locking herself into place.
She smells like soap and that goddamn scent that haunts me.
Marshmallows.
Sweet. Warm. A mistake.
“I want a weapon,” she says suddenly.
Her spine straightens. Chin tilts up. Defiance wrapped around fear like armor.
“You already have one,” I say. “Knife in your boot. Inside ankle.”
Her eyes flicker before she can stop them.
Caught.
“I need more than that,” she snaps. “I want a gun.”
I laugh.
Low. Real. The sound rolls out of me because the audacity of it—of her, hits something feral in my chest.
“No.”
The word is final. Absolute.
I watch the frustration spark across her face, quick and bright. She’s calculating again, already adjusting her odds. She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t plead.
She plans.
I step back slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact. Circle the car like a wolf giving space before the bite. I pop the trunk.
Metal gleams in the low light. Tools. Weapons. Intent. I reach in and grab the brass knuckles. Heavy. Scarred. Familiar.
I turn and toss them at her feet. They hit the dirt with a dull, final thud.
Her gaze drops instantly. I watch her reaction, not the obvious one, but the microsecond before she schools her face. Interest. Recognition. Approval she doesn’t want to admit.
“Those aren’t a gun,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “They’re better.”
She doesn’t pick them up yet. Smart. Still deciding if it’s a trick.
“They’ll hurt my hand,” she says.
I tilt my head. “Only if you hesitate.”
Her fingers curl once at her side.
I step closer again. Close enough that she can feel the promise of me.
“Walk,” I repeat. “Or I’ll drag you.”
Her nostrils flare. Anger bleeds through the fear now, sharp and alive.
She bends, scoops up the knuckles, slides them on with practiced efficiency that makes my pulse kick hard.
She straightens, meets my gaze, and for the first time since we stopped the car—she smiles.
Feral.
Blyad.
My cock twitches. And I know, with absolute certainty, that tonight is not going to end the way I planned.
I step back and gesture toward the trees.
“Go.”
She pushes off the car and moves toward the tree line. She moves into the dark. The brass glints dull on her knuckles as she moves. My eyes track every motion, catalog the angle of her shoulders, the rhythm of her breath.
I follow ten paces behind. Close enough to keep her in sight, far enough to force the echo of her own heartbeat to fill the space between trees.
Pine needles crunch under my boots. The wind moves through the branches and carries her scent back to me—marshmallows and damp earth and the faint bite of metal.
I breathe it in and hate myself for how much I want more.
She stops at a fallen log, turns, waits. Moonlight slices across her face in thin bars. Her eyes find mine like she never lost track of where I was.
“So?” she asks, low, controlled. “Test begins now or you gonna stand there brooding about my underwear again?”
I almost smile.
Instead I close the distance slow, boots silent on the moss. I reach into the small of my back and pull the Glock. One smooth motion. She flinches, just once. Then steels herself.
I rack the slide and let the round hit the log. Empty. Harmless. I toss the gun away.
I draw the knife from my hip. Eight inches, matte black, the edge honed to a whisper. I flip it once, handle to blade, then toss it toward her.
She doesn’t touch it.
I strip off my jacket, feel the night bite across my ink. “Pick it up.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to fight me and you need an advantage, your knife is shit.”
“Right now, right here? Just pick up the knife and fight?”
“After you run.”
Run?” She lets out a shaky breath and my pulse stutters.
“Yes, Ayla. Run.”