11. Lila
Lila
I wait up for him because I’m not too proud to apologize or admit when I’m wrong.
And I had been wrong earlier.
My fears and history colored my opinion. I jumped to conclusions. He’s been nothing but kind to me, and I owe him an apology.
I think about the horses he rescued. It isn’t cheap to feed and take care of them.
And the stables are impressive. I can’t stop replaying the image of him cradling the woman.
He’d been whispering to her. At the moment, I thought maybe he was threatening her.
I knew better, but some part of me feared I would always look at men like Maksim and see my mother’s murder.
Guilty men don't carry women gently.
Or maybe they do.
He's done nothing to hurt me. I’ve been in his house and at his mercy for nearly two weeks, and the worst thing he's done is tell me the truth about what he is when I asked.
I accused him of beating a woman to death.
I need to apologize.
I hear the front door and then footsteps. Men’s voices. I can tell something is off. And then, I smell it.
Oh no.
Blood. Fresh.
I walk down the hall and into the foyer. I see him.
Maksim is favoring his right leg. Blood covers his hands and drips onto the pristine marble floor. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, and more blood seeps through the fabric.
"What happened?" The words come out before I can stop them.
The men flanking him turn to look at me with unkind eyes. One of them—I think his name is Viktor—glares like I've spit in his face. Another mutters a curse.
Damien stops in his tracks, his eyes landing on me with such anger that I take a step back.
He lets loose a string of what I assume is Russian, the words harsh and biting even though I don't understand them. I can figure out they’re all blaming me for their boss’s injuries.
Then he turns on his heel and walks away.
Maksim doesn't even acknowledge that I spoke. He limps painfully past me and toward the stairs.
That's when I see his leg. The left calf of his pants is soaked with blood.
"Maksim!”
He keeps walking.
I follow him up the stairs and down another hallway I haven't explored. He pushes through a door at the end—his bedroom, I realize—and leaves it open behind him. An invitation? Or does he just not care?
I hesitate at the threshold. This is his private space. I shouldn't be here.
But he's hurt.
The room is massive, with dark furniture and expensive-looking everything. A king-sized bed with a black duvet. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the property. It smells like him in here.
Maksim strips off his jacket and tosses it on the floor. The shoulder of his shirt is shredded, with blood crusted around the edges of the tear. He yanks the shirt over his head with a wince that he tries to hide.
I try not to look. I really do.
But it's impossible.
His chest is all hard muscle and smooth skin. There's a tattoo over his heart, Cyrillic letters that I can't read. More ink wraps around his ribs and disappears beneath his waistband.
He's beautiful in a way that makes my mouth dry.
He's also covered in blood and in pain, which should be my focus. Not the way his muscles shift as he moves or the sharp “V” of his hips as he unbuttons his pants.
Oh God. He's taking off his pants.
I can’t look away.
"Stay or go. I don't care." His voice is flat and exhausted.
He walks to the bathroom in his tight briefs and doesn’t shut the door. I watch as he uses a digital keypad to turn on the water.
And then his briefs are gone, and I’m staring at his firm ass. I look away for a half-second but can’t stop myself from looking back.
He disappears behind the frosted glass. Steam drifts out.
I stand there like an idiot, staring at his naked figure behind the glass. What the fuck? What am I supposed to do? Leave and let him deal with whatever happened alone? Stay and... what? Offer to help?
Will Cinder be here soon? What will she think when she sees me watching her… boyfriend? Lover?
I still can’t bring myself to walk away.
He's hurt because of me. I know this is somehow connected to me and the mess I dragged him into.
The glass is fogged, but not enough to hide his silhouette. He's leaning one hand against the tile wall, head bowed, water cascading over him.
I should leave. This is too intimate. Too private.
But I can't make my feet move toward the door.
Instead, I find myself walking closer. He's not just beautiful; he's dangerous. Every line of his body speaks of violence and power. This is a man who has killed. Who will kill again.
And yet, he saved me.
"I'm sorry." The words come out barely above a whisper.
Maybe he didn't hear me over the water.
"I'm sorry," I say louder. "For what I said earlier. For thinking you... I was wrong."
The water shuts off. Silence fills the space, heavy and thick.
He pulls open the shower door and reaches for a towel. He wraps it around his waist without looking at me. When he finally does meet my eyes, I see hurt. Anger.
He limps past me, leaving wet footprints on the floor. He opens a closet and pulls out a medical bag I’d expect to see a paramedic carry.
Of course. This is a house of violence, and a couple of Band-Aids won’t be much use in their world.
"Let me help." I move closer.
"I've got it."
"You can't reach your shoulder properly."
He pauses with the gauze in his hand and sighs. "Fine."
I take the supplies from him. My hands shake slightly as I move behind him to get a better look at the wound on his shoulder blade.
“Who was she?” I wince when I see the injury.
"Her name was Mara," he says. "She'd been with my operation for two years."
"I'm sorry," I repeat.
“I know.”
I want to ask why he’s injured, but I think I know. When he stormed out earlier, the rage and intent on his face were clear. Someone died by his hand tonight. Possibly several people.
“We have a problem,” he says.
“I’ll go,” I murmur.
“No, you’ll marry me.”
A laugh escapes my throat before I see his expression. He’s serious.
My eyes go to his head as I trail my fingers through his wet hair in search of an injury. He must have a TBI. I’ve seen it before. One of the ranch hands got kicked in the head and was talking crazy for hours.
"Marry me," he says again.
“Stop. You’re not in your right mind.”
“You will marry me.”
“I’d like to see you try to force me.”
“It’s the only way. A woman with my name is protected. No one would dare touch you. They know what happens if they try.”
"Absolutely not."
“You don’t have a choice.”
"I do have a choice. Watch this.” I point to my mouth. “No. I won't be owned. Not by Arlind, not by you, and not by anyone else. That is the one thing I have left, and I will not hand it to you or anyone else."
"This isn't about owning you. This is about you staying alive.”
I snort and rip open a gauze pad. “It’s none of your business if I’m alive or dead.”
“It is.”
“No, Maksim. I’m sorry you went on a murderous rampage, but I won’t marry you. I don’t know you. I don’t think I like you. I know I don’t want to be one of your whores. You like to collect things. I refuse to be one of your pets.”
He grabs my wrist, and his dark eyes flash with rage. "You can hate me in my house, Lila. You can hate me with my ring on your finger. But you are going to be alive while you do it."
I tell myself there’s still a chance he hit his head. "I apologized. I didn't propose."
“My wife carries my name. My wife is protected by the bratva.”
“What the hell is a bratva?”
“My family.”
“Wait, like the mob?”
His lips curl back. “We are not the mob. We’re the bratva.”
“Potato, potahto. Same thing. No thanks. I don’t wear leopard print and fur.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
I tear open one of the large square bandages. “Mob wives. I don’t do the mob wife thing.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you do or don’t wear!”
He stands up with the towel riding dangerously low on his hips. “You will marry me, because I just started a war over you. This is the only way I can protect you from what you set in motion!”
“I didn’t tell you to do whatever you did tonight!”
“They’ll come for you to punish me,” he hisses.
I glare at him, refusing to back down. I don’t care that he murders people who piss him off. I will not bow to anyone.
“It solves the problem."
"I'm not a horse you can rescue and put in a stable," I snap. "I'm not a project. I'm not something broken that you fix by giving it somewhere to live. I won’t deny I’m a problem, but if you think I’m going to marry you, you’re going to learn how much of a problem I can be."
He’s staring at me with an intensity that prickles my skin. His chest is rising and falling rapidly. I’m also breathing too fast. There’s something dark and hungry behind his eyes that should terrify me.
His hand cups the back of my neck, pulling me forward, and then his mouth is on mine.
I should push him away or slap him. I should do anything except what I’m doing, which is kissing him back and moaning into his mouth.
His lips are surprisingly soft against mine, demanding and gentle at the same time. The kiss is desperate, like he’s trying to devour me. His other hand finds my waist and drags me against his body.
Another moan slips out of me. His tongue sweeps against mine, and I clutch at him just to stay standing. My palms slide over hard muscle, and the steady thunder of his heartbeat.
This is insane. This is wrong. He just ordered me into marriage like it’s another war to win, and now, he’s kissing me like I’m the only thing keeping him alive.
God help me, I can’t stop. One kiss and I’m ready to hand him my virginity on a silver platter.
What is wrong with me?
His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. The towel might as well not be there. I feel him, hard and hot against me, and my brain goes blank.
Holy shit.
He’s huge.
What am I doing?
Panic cuts through the heat, and I plant both hands against him.
He releases me immediately and stumbles back a step. The room goes silent except for the sound of us trying to breathe.
“No,” I say. “No. No way.”
My lips are tingling. My body is on fire, and I’m seriously thinking about climbing him and begging him to fuck me.
“Stay away from me.” I run from his room.
I make it to my room and slam the door behind me, pressing my back against the wood as if that will keep him out. If he wants me, he knows how to get to me, and I can’t stop him.
I can still taste him on my lips.
“Fuck,” I whisper to the empty room.
I kissed him back. I kissed Maksim Sokolov, the man who runs brothels and kills people, and just casually asked me to marry him.
And I liked it.
This is bad. This is so bad.
I’m attracted to him.
“You’re an idiot, Lila,” I mutter. “A complete and total idiot.”
My body is still humming with want. I need to hate him.
But I don’t. I can’t.