Chapter 18
Ayla
Ishould argue. Should tell him he’s insane. That he can’t just decide to keep a person like I’m something he picked up at a store.
But I’m too tired.
Bone tired.
And some twisted part of me—the part that’s been surviving on scraps and violence and fear for years, whispers that maybe being with him is safer than being alone where Gabriel can get me.
I hate that part of myself.
He’s going to be pissed I lost my phone.
He glances at me, those blue eyes catching light from passing streetlamps. “Still not going to tell me who’s been using you as a punching bag? Or why you work three jobs and still can’t afford to eat? You’re hiding something that scares you more than I do.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
My throat tightens.
I turn back to the window. “I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
Silence settles again. Heavy. Suffocating.
The city blurs past. Everything looks different at night. Softer. Like all the sharp edges get swallowed by darkness.
I wish I could disappear like that.
Just fade into nothing until people forget I ever existed.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“My place.”
“I don’t want to go to your place.”
“I don’t care what you want right now, Beda. You need rest and food. You’ll get both.”
I close my eyes. Let exhaustion pull at me like a current. Fighting him takes energy I don’t have anymore.
The car slows in front of a townhouse. He parks and kills the engine.
“How many places do you have?”
“Enough,” he chuckles.
I don’t move.
My body feels like lead, every muscle screaming, every breath shallow and wrong. The pain medication Moronov gave me is wearing off faster than it should.
Maksim gets out, comes around to my side. Opens the door.
“Come on,” he says, reaching for me.
I want to tell him I can walk. Want to prove I’m not completely helpless.
But when I try to move, my ribs protest so violently I gasp.
He doesn’t wait for permission this time. Just scoops me up like I weigh nothing and carries me toward the entrance.
“I can walk,” I mutter against his chest.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Beda, you can barely breathe without wincing. Save your energy.”
I hate that he’s right.
Hate that I’m letting him carry me again.
Hate that some part of me—small and desperate and so tired of fighting—feels safe here.
Inside, the townhouse is clean, modern, beautiful.
Expensive in that understated way rich people prefer.
He carries me straight to the bedroom and sets me down on the bed gently. Too gently.
“Stay here,” he orders.
“Where else would I go?”
He smirks faintly. “Knowing you? Out the window.”
I almost smile.
I sit there, staring at the door, trying to process everything that just happened. Moronov’s questions. The tests. The way Maksim looked at me when he saw the bruises.
Humiliating.
Maksim returns carrying clothes—soft gray sweats and a t-shirt that looks about ten sizes too big for me.
“Here,” he says, setting them on the bed. “Change.”
I stare at them. “I’m fine in this.”
“I don’t know whose clothes you’re wearing, but I want them off of you.”
There’s something in his voice—something dark and possessive that makes my pulse kick.
“Turn around,” I say.
He doesn’t move.
“Maksim.”
“I’ve already seen you in your underwear, Beda. Multiple times.”
My face heats despite myself. “That doesn’t mean—”
“Fine.” He turns, leaving the room “You have two minutes.”
I don’t waste time arguing.
I peel off Emir’s hoodie, wincing as the fabric drags across bruised skin. The leggings are worse—every movement pulls at my ribs, makes me want to curl up and stop.
I put on the clothes he gave me. They smell like him.
Annoying.
I lay on the bed, the mattress is so soft it might as well be a cloud. My eyes fall shut before I can control it. My instinct screaming that it’s not safe to sleep here.
Not with Maksim returning in minutes. Not without my knife.
But my body sinks deeper and truly, I don’t care what happens. Maybe in this soft darkness I can be free.
I stir to a cool hand at my forehead and a low murmur I don’t quite catch. Pain flares when I shift, then warmth settles over me again. I’m gone before I can fight it.
I wake again to my name.
My eyes crack open. The room swims. He’s crouched beside the bed, a glass in his hand.
“Drink,” he says.
He lifts it to his mouth first. Just a sip. Then holds it out to me.
The glass is cool. The water tastes clean. I drink until he pulls it away.
“Good,” he mutters.
I’m already fading again.
When I wake this time, it’s with pressure in my bladder.
The room is bright. Too bright.
Sunlight spills through the window, high and unapologetic. Afternoon, maybe.
I sit up slowly, head heavy, body sore but… quieter.
I scan the bedroom. No sign of Maksim. The door is cracked open slightly, the place sounds quiet.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, testing my weight. My ribs protest, but it’s manageable.
I spot a note on the nightstand beside me:
Bathroom is the left door.
Closet on the right.
I’ll be back.
Don’t leave.
The bathroom is exactly where he said it would be.
I barely make it in time.
When I wash my hands, I notice the box by the shower.
Cardboard. Open. Inside—ten bottles of my body wash. My body wash. The same one from my apartment. Same scent. Same brand.
My throat tightens.
I stare at the bottles like they might rearrange themselves into something that makes sense.
How…? Why?
Heat crawls up my neck, then drops straight into my stomach, heavy and cold.
Did he really mean it?
About keeping me?
Because this—this isn’t some impulse decision he made in the car.
This is planned.
Ordered.
Delivered.
How long has this been in motion?
Nausea licks up the back of my throat. I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles ache.
Maksim… stocked shelves. Lined up bottles like offerings.
Control.
Dressed up in comfort.
Typical of men like him.
On the counter, there are two of everything. Toothbrushes. Razors. Even perfume.
I pop the cap and smell it. It smells like… marshmallows in cream.
He didn’t just make space. He filled it. For me.
Panic claws at my ribs, sharp and frantic. How long is he planning on keeping me here?
The closet confirms it, when I pull it open. Designer clothes. New. Still crisp. All my size. I pull out a t-shirt and jeans, then stop. I open a dresser drawer. Men’s boxer briefs. Folded. Black. Too big. Next drawer. Women’s underwear.
I freeze.
Tags still attached.
They’re new.
I take in a steady breath.
Shower first. Deal with the rest after.
I grab one without thinking and shut the drawer like it might accuse me of something.
The shower water is hot. The bathroom fills with steam. For the first time in longer than I want to admit, I let myself stand under it without watching the door.
By the time I finish and dress, Maksim is standing in the bedroom.
He’s leaned against the doorframe like he’s been there a while, arms crossed, watching.
His eyes drag from my damp hair braided down over the black shirt that actually fits me, across the dark denim hugging my hips, all the way to my bare feet on the hardwood.
Slow. Assessing.
I fight the urge to fold my arms over my chest. The clothes feel… wrong. Too new. Too soft. Like I’ve walked into someone else’s life and pulled it on over my skin.
His jaw ticks once.
“You look good,” he says quietly.
I glance down at myself, then back at him. “You bought more clothes.”
“Yeah.” No apology. Just fact.
Heat prickles at the back of my neck. I roll a shoulder, pretend it doesn’t land. “You didn’t have to—”
“I did.” His gaze sharpens. “Can’t be in my house looking like shit.”
A beat passes. My fingers toy with the hem of the shirt. It’s soft and smooth and definitely not from a bargain bin.
“If you’re looking for shoes,” he adds, chin tipping toward the closet, “bottom shelf. Couple more boots.”
My mouth opens, some sharp comment on the tip of my tongue, when he tosses something small and dark through the air.
I flinch, then catch it clumsily against my chest. Pain spikes through my ribs and I hiss.
“Easy,” he grunts. “It’s just a phone.”
I look down.
Sleek. Shiny. Black screen, no cracks. Edges smooth and expensive. It glows faintly to life when my thumb brushes the side.
Way nicer than the beat-up brick I had before. The one with the spiderwebbed screen and the battery that died if you looked at it wrong.
“Your new phone,” Maksim says.
My fingers tighten around it. “You broke my old one and now you’re… replacing it?”
“You lost your old one being an idiot,” he corrects, utterly calm. “Location on after getting your ass beat? Stupid move.”
The words dig under my skin.
“You’re a fucker,” I mutter. “So what strings are attached?”
“None, there’s no tracking on it,” he adds.
My head snaps up. “What?”
He jerks his chin at the device. “No GPS, no spyware. No way for anyone, including the pretend stairs you fell down, to get to you.”
I stare at him, suspicious. Men like him don’t give gifts without hooks. The phone sits in my palm, almost weightless and somehow heavy as a shackle.
“Why?” I ask.
His eyes flick to my face, sharp and assessing. “Because if you need help, I want you to call. Not disappear.” He pauses. “And because I don’t need to track you to find you.”
A chill runs down my spine.
He nods toward the hallway. “There’s food waiting for you in the kitchen. Eat.”
I open my mouth—no idea what I’m even going to say, then shut it again when he crosses to the dresser.
He pulls open a drawer, grabs a fresh t-shirt, and peels the one he’s wearing over his head like I’m not even here.
For a second, my brain stutters.
I’ve seen him shirtless before in flashes—blood, chaos, adrenaline, but never like this. Never in full light with nowhere else to look.
Ink crawls over his torso and arms, a tapestry of violence and meaning I could probably stare at for hours and still not understand. A lion on his forearm. Black script in Russian down his ribs.