Chapter 18
Nika
The next two days pass in much the same way.
Max sleeps on the couch while I’m cuffed and zip-tied to the headboard, this time with my hands at the bottom instead of the top.
Progress.
Every morning when he wakes up, he stokes the fire, prepares breakfast, and leads me out, repeating the process for lunch and dinner.
Then he retrieves more wood from the garage, keeping the stack ready for the bitterly frigid nights.
I’m sure we’re going through the supply much faster than Dimitri ever anticipated.
Sometimes Max talks, other times he doesn’t. He feeds me at every meal, though he doesn’t let me touch anything other than a cup of water. He doesn’t trust me, the bastard, not that I blame him. I don’t trust him either.
He leaves me no opportunities to make a single move. Even when he sleeps, if I so much as roll over, he wakes up. Hell, he wakes any time the temperature drops.
He’s always in my business, standing outside the bathroom every time I go. At least he lets me shower.
Of course, he gets privacy. He roams all over the house, disappearing wherever he wants while I’m stuck in this bed.
Just another way to try to break down my psyche.
I hate to admit that it’s working. I’m so damn bored, I’m willing to do anything for some mental stimulation.
All the while, he continues to search the house. For what, I’m not sure. Every time I come out, though, the mess has grown.
Not destructively like that first day. But he’s clearly opened every drawer and cabinet, examined everything, and upended my sanctuary.
Outside, the snow continues to fall. Even if Dimitri turned back around the moment I called, he wouldn’t have gotten here for three or four days. He’d have to hike up and down the mountains.
I doubt he would survive that.
At least once a day, Max knocks the snow down from the windows and doors, ensuring we don’t lose that meager light or access to fresh air.
Meanwhile, I just lie here. Waiting. Anticipating.
Losing track of time.
Slowly going insane.
On the second or third evening after dinner, he enters my room again. “Get up.”
I groan, trying to picture myself any place other than here. “I don’t have to use the bathroom, and I showered this morning.” He’s so controlling, he even tells me when to pee.
He cuts the zip ties securing me to the bed. “That’s good, because we’re going downstairs.”
Downstairs? So he found the stairwell to the lower level in the pantry.
We’re going to the basement, where Dimitri did all of my training, the place that marks this safe house as not a home, but as a professional setting with the trappings of privacy. A lair in disguised.
“Fine.” Because what choice do I have?
Max leads me to the butler’s pantry, every wall stocked with spices and nonperishables. The rattan rug covering the floor’s swept to the side, revealing an open trapdoor.
Concrete stairs send stabbing icicles up through my bare feet, and I wish I’d taken a minute to grab some socks. Without the heating running, and with the door closed, little warmth reaches the basement. And despite Max feeding the fire, the cold creeps deeper into the house every hour.
Once we hit the bottom, Max veers to the side and flicks a switch to turn on the bright hanging lights, showing he’s already familiar with the layout. I wonder just how long ago he found the stairs.
The basement opens into a fighting arena, with weights, a bike, a treadmill, a stair machine, a rowing machine, punching bags, and everything else you’d expect to find in a professional gym.
The sights are familiar, as are the scents.
Old sweat and rubber. Under those smells is rust and iron. I’ve spilled blood on nearly every surface down here. Trained my body and my mind. Learned how to do things the proper way. Heard the story of Roman’s life and the horrors he committed while posing as a doting father.
“You’ve been cooped up for too long.” Max gestures to the mats in the far back corner. They’re usually on the left side of the floor. The jerk moved them. “Go stretch.”
I stare, frowning. Then I lift my hands and jingle the handcuffs. He pulls a key from his right pocket.
I’ll remember that.
His eyes stay locked on mine as he unfastens the restraints. “Behave.”
I nearly hiss as the frigid air hits irritated skin. With the pressure finally off my wrists, the relief flows through me as quickly as the blood returning to my fingers. I shake out my hands, not aware of how close to numb they were.
“Only if you do.”
Max strides over to the punching bag hanging just to the right of the stairs and shoos me to the back corner like one might a child.
He’s not dropping his guard, no matter how obedient I act.
I appreciate that he respects my skills, but after days on end of this, I’m tired of his infuriating eyes on me.
I walk to the mats and start reaching for my toes. My hamstrings burn in protest and my shoulders droop toward the ground as I force them to relax. They’ve been tight for days.
Everything’s been tight.
Even in sleep, my muscles stay locked with tension.
Moving feels so good. Rolling my hands back and forth and stretching my arms behind my back. Kicking my feet back, I drop into an upward dog, arching my neck.
My upper chest is tight in ways I thought I’d dealt with years ago, but a few more iterations should fix that. Strength and flexibility don’t deteriorate in such a short period of time.
Lunging forward, I raise my butt to the ceiling while keeping my hands in place and watch Max from between my ankles.
He’s working the heavy bag, causing it to swing and sway. Which is…impressive. Beyond impressive, actually.
If he’d ever hit me with one of those punches…
Well, I’m glad I’m good at dodging.
He builds a rhythm. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Next, he reverses the order, then gives a flurry of different strikes. There’s no rhyme or reason to Mad Max. He circles the bag, hitting the reinforced leather like it cursed out his mother.
Except he killed his mother. He told me so. I doubt he’d bat an eye at someone insulting her.
His speed blurs his movements. With each hit, the bag strains at the seams. The pounding of his fists echoes like a heartbeat.
And he just keeps going.
I’m nearly through with my warm-ups when sweat finally starts to darken his t-shirt, across his shoulders first, then down his spine. His hair falls over his forehead with each blow, dark strands sticking to his skin.
Now he’s just showing off. Putting on a show to intimidate me.
I want to scoff, but I can’t glimpse away. I expected him to fight like an animal, but instead, he…dances, every punch he throws perfectly executed. No wasted energy. Just pure, focused aggression channeled through technique drilled into muscle memory over years.
He’s incredible.
Shame chases the heels of that thought.
I hate that my body responds to his fighting like he’s performing some kind of primal mating ritual. I’ve never felt this before, so why now? Why him?
He stops, his chest heaving as he catches his breath and walks to a water bottle on the steps. He’s favoring his right leg a little.
If I hadn’t seen his ankle before or searched for a weakness, I’d have missed it.
“Want to spar?” The words come out before I think about them, but I have no regrets.
He’s tired, has an injured ankle, and probably feels cocky after his little display. Now’s my best chance to get away.
Or better yet, kill him.
His shoulders start to shake, and I realize he’s laughing.
Anger prickles under my skin, though the reaction transforms him. His smile softens those blade-hard lines of his face. Those sharp eyes thaw, becoming less like ice and more akin to cool water. For a second, he appears younger.
Less like a weapon and more like a man who’s…happy.
Which is somehow worse than the cold and controlled version of him. Thugs, assassins, and mercenaries I know how to deal with. Happy men are an entirely different beast.
At least when he’s cold, he’s just a tool to use and discard.
Who’s the man under Mad Max? Who’s left when Roman’s attack dog powers off for the night? And why the hell do I want to find out?
He considers me for a long moment before stalking toward the mats.
I straighten up, lifting my hands as I get ready to take on this man who nearly broke a punching bag with the force of his fists.
That power won’t matter if he can’t hit me.
And once I win, he’ll be the one bound to the bed. Then he’ll give me exactly what I want. I might even be the bigger person and not hold him captive for days.
Will I kill him?
I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe I’ll see how he reacts to losing before I decide.
He steps onto the mat and raises his own fists, each bigger than mine put together. “Your guard is too high. Drop your hands two inches, and you’ll—”
“Oh, no. You did not just…” I feint a kick and then a jab to the sternum. “Don’t you dare try to coach me.”
The prick.
I’ll have so much fun dropping him.
He shifts his weight, ignoring the feint and dodging the punch. Then he grins, all teeth. With that smile still on his face, his fist comes straight for my nose.
He’s fast, though I knock the strike aside in time. While he’s still leaning forward, I target his good leg with a low kick.
In response, he throws an elbow.
Adrenaline starts pumping, heating my limbs and making me lighter.
I duck under his arm and attempt a kidney shot.
He twists to face me again, absorbs the blow on a meatier area, then hurls himself at me.
What the hell is he doing?
He uses his bigger mass as a shield and a weapon. I can’t punch him again now that he’s closed the distance, and his large silhouette blocks my view of his limbs. I don’t know what he’s planning, but he’s not trapping me again.
I drop into a backward somersault and barely avoid the spinning elbow that would have torn my head off. A smile stretches my cheeks. If he’s not holding back, then neither will I.
I sweep at his ankles. He jumps, and on his landing, I drive my heel onto his toes.
He curses, gritting his teeth. “Sneaky little devil.” He lifts his foot, nearly flipping me around, and follows up with a stomp where I would have been. “Who taught you to fight dirty?”
I end up crab walking away and do a back walkover to give myself some room. “The streets.”
He tilts his head, avoiding my attempt to gouge his eyes. “Which streets?”
“Here. There. Everywhere, really. You?” I jerk my arm away before he can bite it.
“St. Petersburg. Then Chicago. And anywhere else I got sent.” He’s still grinning and baring his teeth.
I haven’t enjoyed a spar like this in months, maybe years. It’s not like in the garage or hotel room, or even the kitchen a few days ago.
We’re pulling punches, but there’s no hatred here. No desperation. Just energy, force, and the static tingling beneath my skin, buzzing in the air between us and drawing me in.
We trade combinations as we talk.
I shake hair out of my eyes. “How old when you started?”
His fist whistles past my ear. Rather than dodge, I snap at his forearm with my teeth. If he can fight that dirty, I don’t mind joining him in the gutter.
“Eight. Some would say.” He slips past my punch. “You?”
“Nine.” As if he doesn’t know how old I was when I left the Kozlovs. “Why did you start?”
“Because I had to.” He catches my next hit and twists my wrist. “You?”
I use the momentum to spin out. “Me too.”
He looks as surprised as I am, his eyes wide, his grin slipping.
How could we, who had such different upbringings, have similar outcomes, and at the same time in our lives?
What an absurd coincidence.
“Fighting’s the only connection I know.” I’m not sure why I’m admitting this. Why I’m offering him real information.
He nods. “I get that.”
He’s still gripping my arm as if he forgot about our skirmish. He’ll soon regret that.
Instead of getting free, I shove. With most of his weight on his bad ankle, Max goes down but doesn’t let go.
The mat doesn’t cushion much, but his big, sweaty body does.
I land on top of him, sprawled out over his chest. Reflexively, I lift myself up, taking advantage of the position to straddle him.
“Did you really think you’d beat me in my own house?” I straighten my spine, laughter on my lips.
I gaze down, ready to rub my victory in his face, and stop. Those icy blue eyes burn with desire.
That same lust-fueled heat boils through me as I realize I’m straddling him.
I want him to flip me over and pin me to the mats. Rip my underwear off so his hands can explore every inch of me unimpeded, claiming me in ways that terrify and excite me in equal measure.
His hands come up to cradle my hips. Not to move or hurt me, but to keep me in place. He wants this too.
I lean down instinctively, and Max stretches upward. We’re drawn together by a force I don’t understand and can’t control.
At least until his fingers clutch onto my hips and he pushes me away, causing me to tumble sideways. Before I can catch myself, he’s already scrambling to his feet and backing up like I’m the threat.
As he continues to retreat, he winces.
I’m left sitting on the mats, my body still thrumming with arousal and adrenaline.
What the hell just happened?