Chapter 26 #2
Max placed my bags at the bottom of the stairs with a thud that echoed in the space and gestured for me to follow. Resistance felt futile, so I did. We stepped into the kitchen, where light oak cabinets hung from the white-painted walls.
Then it hit me. This was real. I was going to be spending most of my time with Max, which meant it’d be impossible to escape him.
I needed a plan if I wanted to survive.
“Hey,” I began, my voice weak, “I think we should have some ground rules. You know, until we, uh, get married.”
The last word hung in the air, a not-so-subtle reminder of the deal we’d struck. I was stalling again, and I was sure he could see right through me.
Max reached into a cupboard and pulled out a short glass. He nodded, his expression unreadable, before placing a bottle of whiskey on the counter with a clink.
“Okay. Let me hear them.”
He poured a shot of the amber liquid. He took a sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he watched me over the rim of the glass.
“Right,” I started, gathering my thoughts. “For starters, no kissing.”
“Merda,” he whispered, rolling his eyes. The word sounded like a curse, but I wasn’t sure which one it was. I made a mental note to download Duolingo if I wanted to keep up with his occasional slips into his native tongue.
“And . . . no sex.”
He shook his head. “You will be my wife, Rosalie. I will be doing both of those.”
My face flushed with heat. “No.”
“Haven’t you tortured me enough?” he asked.
“I need more time.”
He didn’t like it, but he wanted to respect me. “You get to pick one.”
If I wanted to survive a man like Max, I couldn’t sleep with him. And kissing Max would lead to sleeping with Max, which would make me stupid and sloppy. The last thing I needed was to end up pregnant with his child. That would give him exactly what he wanted.
“No. I can’t kiss you or have sex with you.”
“Until when?” he asked.
“Until I say so.”
He shook his head, his disapproval clear. “I don’t like this rule very much.”
“I gathered,” I said with finality.
We stood there in a standoff. It felt as if the room were shrinking around us because of his disapproval, but this was a line I had to draw, a boundary I needed to uphold, no matter how difficult it might be.
He took another deliberate sip of whiskey, his jaw hardening. “Okay. My turn. Breakfast. You will have it with me every Monday—”
“Every Monday—” I tried to interject, my voice trembling slightly.
“Rosalie, it’s my turn.” He cut me off sharply.
“But—”
“No. Taking turns is a respectful thing to do, and it will keep me from yelling.”
He needed to take a good look in the mirror, because it wasn’t me who was doing the interrupting.
“Okay,” I said flatly. I knew it was better to hear him out than to argue. Max may not want to hurt me, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a temper. I knew what his hands were capable of, and they needed to remain far away from me at all times.
“Breakfast will be at nine every Monday. You will show up on time. We will get to know each other. It’ll help make this transition smoother, especially for you.”
I scoffed. “Oh, as if you’d actually answer any questions I have about you.”
“I will answer every single one of them,” he countered. “Every fear, every doubt, every curiosity. We’ll lay it all out.”
“Why?” I asked. He hardly ever told me anything about himself.
“Because I want you to know the man you’re going to marry.”
A weird feeling waved through me. It was familiar.
It was those moths again. He was going to make it difficult for me to stand my ground.
I hated how weak I could be with him; how he chipped away at my strength.
But a part of me—a tiny, rebellious part—was actually curious.
Curious about what changes I’d see, and if Max was as full of shit as I thought he was.
“And the same goes for you. You will answer mine,” he continued.
“All right,” I agreed. “We get to know each other. But let’s be clear, this doesn’t change anything. The wedding is still a sham.”
He chuckled, taking another sip of his whiskey. “You exhaust me,” he said in a steady voice.
“Then maybe you should get some sleep. I need a break from you anyway.”
“Your mouth,” he demanded. “You run it too much.”
“Just show me to my room, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Max made his way to the stairs, grabbing my bags.
When I reached the landing, I realized the hallway branched off in two directions: a west wing and an east wing. He turned toward the west, his broad shoulders momentarily blocking the entire corridor.
At the end of the hallway, he opened the door, letting me walk in before him. The room had vaulted ceilings, with large windows overlooking the water.
Max put my bag on the king-size bed. The duvet was rumpled and the sheets wrinkled as if someone else had already slept in them.
He moved toward the nightstand, reaching behind him to pull a sleek black gun from the waistband of his pants. Then he started taking off his watch—the one that somehow managed to track my every minute.
He was getting ready for bed. His bed. This was his room. I raised an eyebrow, making sure he noticed.
“Is this where you expect me to sleep?”
He looked up at me as he placed the watch down on the table. “Unless you’d rather take the floor.”
I gave him a withering look. “I’m not sleeping there.”
“What’s the problem?” he asked. “There’s room for both of us. Unless you’re afraid of a little . . . proximity.”
I rolled my eyes. “Please. I’ve handled far scarier things than sharing a bed with you.”
That was a lie. Max was the scariest thing I’d ever known.
“Then what’s stopping you?”
“I need time to adjust. I want my own room.”
“Adjust? To what? I’m not some monster under the bed.”
“Depends on the day,” I shot back, crossing my arms. “Besides, I like my space.”
“Space,” he mused. “I think you’ve had enough of that, yeah?”
“From you? No.”
He smiled. “You’re funny.”
I frowned. “No, I’m serious.”
“Are you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I admitted. “If forgiveness is what you’re looking for, showing me to my own room is your first step.”
For a moment, he looked at me like he couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or snap. He hated this idea—hated every word I’d just said—and I could feel it.
But instead of pushing back, he kept his voice steady as he said, “Okay.”
He grabbed my bags and led me to the east wing.
This bedroom looked nearly identical but less lived-in.
It was perfect. I needed space untouched by Max, the man who seemed offended by my response, but what did he expect?
I didn’t share my bed with enemies. We’d messed with each other so much, and there was still so much to talk about, to fix. This wouldn’t heal overnight.
“Here you go,” he said flatly. “Your own space.”
I stood in the doorway.
He was waiting for something—some acknowledgment, maybe even gratitude—but I couldn’t bring myself to offer it. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? Distance. Boundaries. A chance to think without him invading every corner of my mind.
“This is perfect,” I finally said. “Thank you.”
“We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
“Right. Tomorrow is Monday,” I reminded him. “Breakfast . . . Can’t wait.”
He narrowed his eyes, catching my tone but choosing not to take the bait.
He wanted to prove himself, and I was going to let him—just not without making him work for it.
If he was serious about this, about us, he’d have to learn I didn’t forgive easily.
I hoped for both of us I could learn to let go of a grudge.
But if I couldn’t . . . well, this would all be for nothing.
“Have a good night,” he said as he headed for the door, closing it behind him.
I could still smell him, his cologne, this time without the cigarettes. That wasn’t a good thing. All it did was make it easier for me to make the mistake of kissing him. I knew exactly where a kiss would lead, and I couldn’t break my own rule.