Chapter 23
Roxy
The cottage is too quiet at two in the morning.
Not peaceful-quiet the way it should be, but the sort that stretches every shadow and turns familiar rooms into something slightly off, slightly wrong.
I remember feeling this way right after Andi was born, when we had our very own first apartment; everything was a threat, a thief or a murderer in the night; though it was always just stray cats.
Even the river sounds different tonight. Louder. Closer. As if the water is holding its breath with me.
I lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.
There’s no reason to be this alert. No reason for my heart to be beating fast enough that I can feel it in my wrists.
But the moment I closed my eyes, something nudged at me—an instinct or memory or maybe something older than either.
A prickle at the back of my neck. A wrongness outside the walls.
I heard it two minutes ago. Crunching gravel. A shifting weight in the treeline, close to the porch, too heavy for a deer.
Now the quiet feels poised, braced for something to break.
I grab my phone and dip under the covers, irrationally hoping that “whoever” is outside didn’t see the flash of light when I tapped the screen. My finger hovers over a few contacts: the local dispatch, Mom’s number, even Jesse’s before I tap the one name I shouldn’t rely on.
Makari.
One ring. Then another. He picks up on the third, voice gravel-deep, not groggy at all.
“Roxanne?”
I swallow. “There’s someone in the woods.”
He goes still. I can feel it in the silence. “Where.” It’s not a question; it’s a command.
“Near the house. I heard—” My throat tightens. “I know it sounds childish, but something woke me up. I can’t explain it, but I feel—”
“I’m coming,” he says. “Lock the door. Keep Andrea close to you.”
“Mak—”
But the call is already dead.
I shove off the covers, heart pounding, and hurry to Andi’s room.
The tiny night-light in the corner casts the walls in a warm glow; she’s curled in her blankets, breathing softly, one hand fisted in the stuffed fox Mom got her from town before heading back to Cambridge a few days ago.
I scoop her up gently, and she stirs, eyes fluttering.
“Mama?”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, brushing hair from her forehead. “We’re just going to the living room for a minute.”
She nods sleepily, trusting without question. Her cheek presses against my shoulder as I carry her into the main room. I lock the door, the windows, and double-check them even though I already know they’re secure.
The river outside is rushing, steady, and indifferent.
Every light in the house feels like a beacon, and every window feels like an eye.
And then—footsteps.
Heavy ones. Coming up the front path.
I freeze, clutching Andi closer. A low voice, barely audible, comes through the door: “Roxy. Open it.”
Relief hits so hard my knees almost give. I tuck Andi into the couch deeper, ignoring her bewildered expression, and hurry to the door, unlocking it.
Mak stands on the porch, breath fogging in the deceptively cold night air. He’s wearing a thick black jacket, damp with mist, and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow tells me he hurried. His hair is pushed back, wind-tangled and sleep-mussed. He looks enormous.
He looks like The Bear.
His eyes sweep over me, then over the room, then settle on Andi curled into the couch and already dozing off.
Something sharp flickers through his expression—fear, maybe, or fury, or something older that he’d die before naming.
He makes a cutting motion with his hand, and I realize there are men outside, prowling around the side of the house.
They collectively nod, moving more quietly.
Without asking permission, he steps inside.
Andi’s small, sleepy voice cuts the tension. “Mak?”
He softens immediately; so subtly you’d miss it if you didn’t know him. He reaches out, brushing his knuckles gently along her arm.
“Privet, malyshka,” he murmurs. Hello, little one.
She smiles, the frightened crease between her brows easing. “Is Dima here too?”
Too. As if Mak always comes with the others. As if the men who shadow him are expected and welcome, not nightmares that plague the east coast and run weapons up through Canada.
Mak’s voice is low and soothing. “He’s here.” When I pick her up, his hand moves to her hair, smoothing a curl. “Vsyo v poryadke. Idi spati. Everything is alright. Go sleep.”
Her eyes flutter with a trust that makes my throat thick. She reaches for him, fingers brushing his chest, then relaxes against me again.
“Okay,” she whispers.
He nods once, gives her a look so tender it hurts to see, then gestures for me to take her back to bed.
I lay her down, tuck the blankets around her, and kiss her forehead.
When I return to the living room, Mak is standing near the window, watching the woods with a stillness that makes my pulse skitter.
His posture is not just alert; it’s coiled. Dangerous.
“Tell me what happened,” he says without turning.
“I heard something,” I say. “I know how that sounds. But it wasn’t an animal. Andi didn’t wake me. It was—”
“Instinct,” he finishes. “Listen to it.”
I cross my arms, partly from nerves, partly because the intensity in his voice twists something inside me. “You’re acting like this is normal. Like people wandering the woods is something I should expect.”
“It is,” he says with an exhale that could almost be a laugh. “Now.”
I step closer. “Mak, what is going on?” I haven’t forgotten the sight of him covered in blood days ago—someone else’s blood, thank God, though it twists my stomach with guilt to think it.
I haven’t forgotten the paperwork he filled out with the lawyer who came to the compound, the generous yearly stipend and investments the families of the dead men would receive.
His jaw flexes. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
That sets something off in me—hot and angry and sharp. “I’m already worried,” I say. “I was worried the second you showed up covered in blood two days ago and pretended it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t mine.”
“That is not reassuring!”
He finally turns to look at me, and it’s like staring at a storm. Outside, branches creak in the wind.
“Roxanne,” he says quietly, “I will protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection. I need to know what’s going on, Mak.”
His eyes flare. “You called me.”
My breath catches. He’s right. I did. “I didn’t know who else to call,” I say, voice lower but no softer. “I didn’t have anyone else. That doesn’t mean I need you.”
“It means you trust me.”
The words land between us like a lit fuse.
I take a step closer. Then another. Until I’m nearly chest-to-chest with him, the heat of his body bleeds into mine.
“How am I supposed to do my job,” I whisper, “if you keep me blind? How am I supposed to help you, or myself, or our daughter, when I don’t know what’s happening? If someone is out there, if someone is hunting you, hunting us—”
His hand snaps to my waist, pulling me closer in a single decisive movement.
I gasp, palms bracing against his chest.
“No one is hunting you,” he growls. “They’re hunting me.”
“That’s not comforting either!”
Another step forward and we collide—the argument collapsing into the charged, impossible gravity that has been growing between us for weeks. His grip tightens. Mine does too.
“You don’t get to decide what I know,” I whisper against his throat. “Not anymore.”
“I decide everything,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. “Especially when it concerns your safety.”
“I’ve handled my life fine for the past six years without you.”
His eyes darken. “And look where that’s gotten you. Right in my grip.”
The insult is a spark, as is his smirk. I shove his chest. He catches my wrists. Our breathing tangles in the small space between us.
“You are infuriating,” I hiss.
He leans in, so close his nose brushes mine. “Good.”
Something breaks. Or maybe it fuses.
The next second we’re kissing—no, consuming each other—restraint tearing loose with a force that leaves me dizzy.
He lifts me onto the kitchen counter without breaking the kiss, hands gripping my hips like he’s been starved for this.
The sudden rain outside seems to beat harder against the windows, like the world is urging us on.
I hear a voice outside—one of his men, maybe two. Footsteps near the porch.
Mak doesn’t stop.
If anything, the danger sharpens the desire, turning it molten.
His mouth moves to my neck. I arch into him, unable to stop myself. The counter is cold. His body is hot. And the contrast snaps something inside me wide open.
“Mak—your men—” I choke out.
“They know to stay away,” he growls, pulling my robe open with one rough tug. “Let them hear.”
The heat that floods my body at that is blinding. I widen my legs, ready for him, but he surprises me by kneeling.
“What—”
A memory flashes through my mind; all those years ago, Makari Medvedev, the man in the mask, on his knees in the bank vault. Eating me like his last meal. Savoring me like no man ever has.
My knees are trembling when he looks up at me with those eyes. Another murmured conversation outside; Mak hears it too, and murmurs, “You better be quiet, Roxanne. Unless you want my men to hear how hard I make you come.”
Just those words make my pussy throb. His hands are hot as they push up my thighs, his stubble-covered jawline grazing my skin. I inhale sharply, pursing my lips against the feel of his tongue licking a long, wet trail up my center. My lower back arches.
Fuck. It isn’t going to take much; working with him every day, so close, feeling his heat…
A strangled cry comes out, and Mak chuckles darkly, his tongue lapping quickly and hard on my clit.
“Quiet, Roxanne. Or do you want them to hear?”
I moan, closed-mouthed, in response. A tremble of rebellion goes through me.
Do I want them to hear me?
“You want them to know you’re mine.”
His fingers dig into my ass, jerking me closer to his hungry mouth. He sucks, slurps, licks, and kisses until I’m leaning back. Blindly, I reach out and bury my fingers in his hair, tugging.
He grunts in approval, standing abruptly.
“What?”
Mak’s smirk is twisted in the dark room. Outside, shadows move past the windows. The cool air on my wet pussy makes me shiver. “Mak,” I whisper, torn. I can’t take him to my room; I can’t allow myself that temptation.
“What, Roxy?” he asks gruffly, the words sinking into his accent. “What do you want? Tell me.”
My lips part. The feel of his clothing against my bare legs is rough. He’s massaging my lower back almost lovingly, leaning his forehead against mine.
You. I want you.
The answer comes to me so unbidden and true that I can’t say it out loud. I can’t.
Makari pulls back as if he’s read my mind, his eyes serious. My chest aches with the realization that I want him more than anything, and I wait for him to call me out on it.
Instead, he slowly moves a hand between my legs. Presses two fingers to my entrance and inches in so slowly that I’m gripping the countertop to keep from screaming in ecstasy.
“I’ll give it to you this time,” Makari says calmly, the pace of him finger-fucking me staying exactly the same. Concentrated. Steady. A man with a job to do, and determination.
“But next time,” he grumbles, “you tell me when I demand it. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I whisper, trying to buck my hips forward in an effort to egg him on. But Mak only smiles grimly, leans forward, and works his fingers harder. Not faster.
The orgasm rushes over me from my core, making my belly clench, my legs go weak. I squirm, biting down another satisfied moan as Mak fucks me through it. The smile on his face shows he is pleased.
“Good girl.”
When it’s over, I’m braced against the cabinets, my breath shaking out of me in unsteady bursts. Mak still has one hand at the base of my spine, keeping me anchored as if he doesn’t trust gravity to do its job.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
He pulls away just enough to look at me, his thumb brushing my cheek as if checking I’m still there. A voice outside says, “River is clear,” and I clumsily move to readjust my robe. Makari helps, his hands steady and patient.
We both breathe the same air, broken now of tension.
“You call me whenever you feel unsafe,” he says, voice quiet but unyielding. “I don’t care what time it is. I don’t care where I am.”
“That’s not fair,” I whisper, still breathless.
“I don’t care about fair.”
I swallow hard. “I can’t live like this, Mak. Not knowing what’s coming.”
He exhales, head dipping to my shoulder for a brief, unguarded second. “I’ll tell you what you need to know. No more.”
“Mak—”
He lifts his head again, eyes blazing straight through me. “Roxanne. I will not lose you or her. I’ll keep you both safe.”
Before I can respond, there’s a rap at the window—Dima’s silhouette, checking in. Is it just me, or is the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk? Mak’s posture shifts instantly, slipping back into the commander, the predator, the man the forest itself fears.
“I have men on the perimeter,” he says. “They’ll stay all night.” He moves toward the door, pausing long enough to look over his shoulder.
The Bear again. But his voice softens just barely.
“Try to sleep.”
Then he’s gone into the dark.
And the night, somehow, feels safer.