Chapter 11 – VALENTINA
Eleven
VALENTINA
Maksim emerges from the hallway, tugging on a white T-shirt. I’ve been around muscles and ink-covered skin my whole life. It barely even registers anymore. But when I walked through that door and found him in nothing but sweatpants—gray fucking sweatpants, at that—I was fighting for my life.
He has the kind of abs I can eat off of and still lick my plate clean. And that faint line of hair leading down from his navel…I want to trace it with my tongue just to see where it ends.
Oh, shit.
I’m fucked.
“Sorry. I keep it cool in here,” he says when my shoulders shudder, offering me a fleece blanket draped over the arm of the sofa. He has no idea I’m anything but cold.
Still, I take it, if only to discreetly breathe him in.
So fucked.
Joke’s on me, though. The blanket smells like Aunt Leni’s perfume. He must keep it here for her when she visits. The thought makes me smile. Maybe I don’t know him that well anymore, but I know how much he loves her, loves them both.
It gives me hope. Hope that maybe I can find my way back in, be someone special in his life again. Someone he keeps blankets for.
The Fruit Loops come to mind, and my stomach flip-flops. That has to mean something…doesn’t it?
“Thank you,” I say as he settles beside me. I shift closer, trying to find a comfortable spot despite the damn cast.
“Let me know when you’re ready to go home. I’ll drive you.”
My heart dips.
“Are you kicking me out already?” I tease, trying to hide the disappointment creeping in.
“No. I just don’t see the need for Remi to drive all the way back here. I can take you.”
A spark of hope flickers.
“Oh, I was planning to book a ride.”
“The fuck you will.”
My head snaps up, meeting his narrowed eyes.
“You know, Maxy, I had a life here before you, one that included late-night walks and rides with strangers.”
If he only knew the half of it. The risks I live and breathe on the track.
“That’s nice. I’m here now.”
Something primal stirs inside me, and I clench my thighs.
God, am I wet? Wet from his possessiveness?
Another shudder runs through me. “I’ll remember that next time. Good to know you care.”
“I never stopped.”
The mood shifts, and suddenly I feel the chill in the room. Or maybe it’s just the sobering reminder of his absence all these years. Guilt roots deep when I think about how easily I almost forgot he was ever real. What a shame that would’ve been.
His beautiful eyes tell a thousand stories. Yet none of them good.
I don’t sleep anyway.
I wonder what keeps Maksim up at night? I know only the vaguest details of his life before Aunt Leni, but looking at him now, I realize I’ve barely scratched the surface. Whatever lives beneath that inked skin and behind those haunted eyes…it’s probably so much worse than I can imagine.
“Maksim.” I wait until his gaze meets mine. “Truth or dare?”
His expression flickers between confusion and amusement. “Really?”
I shift closer, tucking my good leg beneath me to get level with him.
“Why not? Seems like a fun way to make up for lost time.”
“As opposed to an actual conversation?”
“Absolutely. Now pick one.”
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head, but the faint smile tugging at his mouth betrays him.
“Fuck. Fine.”
We hold each other’s stare a moment too long.
“Well?”
“Truth.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
His brows pull together. “I don’t have one.”
“Oh, come on. Everyone has a favorite color.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches between us until he leans forward just slightly, his voice lower now.
“Brown, the kind with tiny flecks of gold in it when the light catches it just right.”
I don’t need to guess what he means. My stomach knots, and the room suddenly feels smaller, warmer…charged.
I open my mouth, but the words stall in my throat when he slides closer, closing the space inch by inch.
“Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” I say, my tongue skimming my lips to hide the way my pulse pounds.
He studies me for a hard moment, like he’s debating whether or not to ask his question.
“What’s the one thing you’re most proud of? Your greatest accomplishment.”
A memory surfaces instantly, and I wonder if he remembers too. Maybe that’s why it’s lingered through the years, because he was there. Because of the way he smiled at me that day.
“I was seven,” I start softly. “Exhausted after a two-hour gymnastics practice. Nothing was going right. I kept falling and messing up. I remember wanting to go home, and looking to the bleachers, hoping my mom or dad was there so I could signal an SOS.” I laugh quietly.
“They weren’t. But then I saw you and Uncle Silas walk in. ”
He doesn’t say anything, but I can feel him watching me, every muscle in his body still.
“You always had this way of pushing me—even when you didn’t realize it. I just wanted to be cool like you. To make you proud. So I said a little prayer and went for it.”
“Your kip.”
My gaze lifts to his, a slow smile spreading. “You remember that?”
“I do.”
As ugly as my first kip was, accomplishing one is such a pivotal moment for a young gymnast. It marks the start of progressing to new skills on bar.
I was ecstatic. My whole team cheered, but the only thing that mattered to me was finding him in the crowd, seeing him clap, seeing that proud smile.
I was the happiest little girl in the world when two of the people I loved most stood and cheered me on.
“It was a good day—especially the chocolate fudge sundae celebration after.”
His chest shakes with laughter. I reach for his hand and give it a squeeze, and something heavy passes between us. It feels like we’re both remembering a version of ourselves that doesn’t exist anymore.
“Truth or dare?” I ask, more breath than sound.
His throat bobs, like he’s thinking it over. “Truth,” he says again.
“What are you most afraid of, Maksim?”
It’s as if the question pulls every ounce of oxygen from the room.
He recoils slightly, looking away, elbows braced on his thighs, and his hands clasped tight enough for his knuckles to pale.
The silence stretches until it hurts. But I say nothing, just wait.
Regret burns inside me as the sweet moment between us splinters.
I open my mouth to tell him to forget it—
“When I was a kid,” he starts, his voice low, “after my parents died…before Mom and Silas. I was bounced around until they stuck me with Pyotr. A distant cousin of my father’s.
And a sadistic son of a bitch,” he adds with a hollow laugh.
“Said he was going to make a man of me. Raise me the way my father intended. And he did just that, only instead of words and guidance, he used his fists, his boots, and anything else within reach. He was creative.”
“Maksim,” I whisper, my hand finding his arm. But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop.
“His favorite punishment was drowning.” Maksim draws a breath through his teeth.
“He’d shove my face under water—almost always ice-cold—until my lungs were on fire.
Until I blacked out. Drowning me until I was on the brink of death brought him some twisted satisfaction I’ll never understand.
” His jaw tightens, eyes far away. “Or maybe…I do.”
He turns to me, his gaze stripped bare, searching for something in my face—revulsion, pity…anything.
“The need for control. For power. For respect. Maybe I get it now.”
My heart aches for him, for the boy who had to become this version of the man sitting in front of me. Tears sting behind my eyes as I move closer, lifting a hand to brush the strands of hair falling across his forehead. But I hesitate.
“I’m sorry you had to live through that.”
“Water,” he says abruptly. His voice is calm and detached. “That’s what I’m most afraid of. Bodies of water. Of drowning. Suffocating in helplessness.”
A lot of things suddenly make sense. I was too young to understand why he never joined us at the beach, why he always stayed on the edge of pools.
Did I ever tease him for it? I can’t remember, and the thought makes me sick.
“Fuck…Maksim. You were just a kid.” My voice shakes as he blurs behind unshed tears. I surge forward, arms wrapping around him, holding on like I can somehow protect the boy he used to be. “Tell me he’s dead. Tell me he’s the one Aunt Leni killed.”
Rage replaces grief.
“If she hadn’t, I would have—eventually. Well, unless he got me first,” he says with a bitter chuckle.
“Don’t say that.”
“Stop crying, Kolibri.”
I stiffen at the name.
“That weak version of me died a long time ago.”