Chapter 7
7
Mak
I wake before dawn, my body conditioned through years of vigilance to never sleep too deeply or too long. The first thing I register is warmth pressed against my side, and the unfamiliar weight of another person sharing my space. Willemina sleeps peacefully, her dark hair spilling across my chest, one hand curled loosely over my heart.
I study her face in repose, memorizing details I missed in the heat of last night’s encounter. There's a small scar near her hairline that's barely visible, making me curious how she got it. Then I notice the perfect arch of her eyebrows, and the slight part of her lips as she breathes. She looks younger in sleep, unburdened by the responsibility she wears like armor during waking hours.
Something tightens in my chest. It's an unfamiliar sensation that takes me a moment to identify as tenderness. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything resembling gentleness for anyone but Zina that the emotion feels almost foreign, like a language I once knew but have long since forgotten how to speak.
My phone vibrates silently on the nightstand. Carefully, I extricate myself from Willemina’s embrace, easing her head onto the pillow without waking her. She makes a small sound of protest before settling deeper into sleep. I watch her for a moment longer before retrieving my phone.
I find three messages from Leonid:
Fedor looking for you. Told him you left with security detail.
Kazanovs asking questions about last night’s meeting. Expecting follow-up.
Shipment arriving early. Needs authorization by 11 a.m.
Reality intrudes like an unwelcome guest. I glance at the time to find it’s only 5:43 a.m. The brief reprieve is ending as my real world reclaims me with its endless demands and dangers.
With a small sigh of defeat, I move to the bathroom, closing the door silently before calling Leonid. He answers on the first ring, voice alert despite the hour.
“Status?” I keep my voice low.
“Everything contained,” he says efficiently. “Fedor hasn’t pushed beyond initial inquiries, and the Kazanovs returned to their territory last night without incident. There’s shipment documentation that requires your digital signature.”
“Come to my office at ten.” I pause, considering my next words carefully. “The woman. Arrange discreet transportation when she wakes. No detail, and no follow-up. Arrange a transportation company that knows nothing about me, and we haven’t used before.”
“Understood.” Leonid’s tone reveals nothing. “And you?”
“I’ll return separately. Have Pavel bring the car to the VIP entrance at 6 a.m., or as close to then as possible.”
The call ends as efficiently as it began. I splash cold water on my face, the shock helping to crystallize my thoughts. Last night was an unexpected, momentary escape from the weight of being Makari Vorobev, but daylight brings clarity and with it, the understanding that some indulgences can’t be sustained.
I dress silently, retrieving scattered clothing from across the suite. My movements are the same as always. I’m following the routine of a man accustomed to leaving before dawn, to severing connections before they form.
Yet something feels different this time.
Something resists the clean break my lifestyle demands.
Back in the bedroom, I watch Willemina sleep for another long moment. The sheet has slipped, revealing one shoulder and the gentle curve of her breast. I adjust the covering, an oddly protective gesture that surprises me even as I perform it.
It would be easy to wake her, to spend another hour exploring the connection that sparked so unexpectedly between us. I could delay my return, push away reality for a few more precious moments in this temporary sanctuary we’ve created. I could pretend to be just Maxim, a businessman with no blood on his hands, no enemies plotting his downfall, and no empire built on suffering for a little longer.
That would be selfish, maybe even dangerous. The longer this fantasy continues, the more complicated the inevitable ending becomes. It’s better to cut cleanly now, before deeper attachments form. Better for her, certainly. Perhaps for me as well, though the sickeningly hollow feeling in my chest suggests otherwise.
I take a rose from the arrangement centered on the dining table, placing it gently on the pillow beside her. Placing the rose feels like goodbye, the gesture simultaneously meaningful and inadequate. It’s merely a token acknowledgment of something that deserves more than I can safely give.
I just hope she doesn’t hate me after this.
I call down to the club to arrange someone to come in early and have breakfast ready for her at nine, remembering how she mentioned being ravenous after night shifts. Small courtesies that are insignificant in the scope of my resources, yet important in ways I can’t fully articulate.
My finger hovers over a tray of stationary. I’m tempted to leave a note, or perhaps my private number, but what would that accomplish? A prolonged deception? An inevitably messy ending when truth surfaces? Or worse, putting her in danger simply by association with me?
In my world, there can be a price others pay for their connection to Makari Vorobev. I won’t add Willemina to the list of potential targets in the endless war I wage. Her life—saving the smallest and most vulnerable—matters too much to be compromised by my darkness.
Decision made, I step away from the desk without writing a word. Better a clean break, and a single night of memory untainted by complications or danger. Better she think me a callous businessman who took what was offered then disappeared. That script, at least, carries no risk to her.
I check my watch and discover it’s five minutes after six. Pavel will be arriving soon or is already waiting. I take one last look at Willemina, memorizing the perfect curve of her lips, and the way her hand curls beneath her cheek.
Taking a slow breath, I silently exit the suite, locking the door behind me.
Once in the elevator, I remember a snippet of conversation from last night, when she mentioned loving plants and hating flowers, because they’re already dead. On impulse, I send a text to my IT person instructing her to track down Willemina’s address and direct her to order the delivery of an anonymous living rosebush. The feels more significant than the dead flower I left, and I close the messaging app, determined to close out this experience with her in the same way.
Now, it’s over.
The private elevator descends smoothly, each floor taking me farther from the brief sanctuary above, drawing me back into the reality I’ve crafted for myself. By the time the doors open onto the discreet side entrance of Eclipse, I’ve locked away the man who held Willemina through the night. My shoulders straighten, jaw tightens, and I force my expression to its customary detachment.
Pavel waits with the car, opening the door without comment as I approach. His discretion is absolute and is one of many reasons he remains in my employ while others have been disposed of for lesser failings.
“The residence,” I say as the door closes, sealing me in leather-scented isolation.
The city passes beyond tinted windows, but the streets are beginning to stir with activity. Delivery trucks, early commuters, and night shift workers head home. It’s the humble, ordinary rhythm of lives unburdened by the weight I carry.
My phone vibrates again with another message from Fedor: Where are you? Urgent situation developing with the Colombians.
I ignore it, focusing instead on the encrypted documents Leonid has sent regarding the incoming shipment. The distraction of business is welcome, drawing my mind away from green eyes and soft skin and conversations that felt genuine in ways my daily interactions never do.
When we reach the estate, security personnel snap to attention as the gates open. Nothing appears out of place, yet I scan the perimeter automatically, assessing potential threats with the instinct of a predator in contested territory. Only when I’m certain all is secure do I exit the vehicle.
“Will you be requiring the car again today, sir?” asks Pavel, his expression carefully neutral.
“No. Take the morning off. Return at noon.” A small kindness to balance the night’s events, perhaps.
Inside, the house is quiet save for distant kitchen sounds. Mrs. Petrova prepares breakfast, unaware her employer has only just returned. I move silently through marble hallways toward my private suite, intent on showering away the lingering scent of Willemina’s perfume before meeting with Fedor.
The door to Zina’s wing opens as I pass, indicating she has returned at least for the weekend. My sister emerges in silk pajamas, hair tousled from sleep. She stops short at the sight of me, surprise quickly giving way to amusement. She crosses her arms, smirking. “Walk of shame? You look…rumpled.”
I maintain my composure, though few people can disarm me like Zina. “Good morning to you too.”
“Must have been quite the business meeting.” Her eyes dance with mischief. “Import-export negotiations running late?”
“Don’t you have class today?” I deflect, continuing toward my rooms.
She falls into step beside me, undeterred. “It’s Saturday, so nope. I have plenty of time to hear about your mysterious disappearance. Fedor was quite put out when you abandoned him with the Kazanovs.”
I stop, turning to face her fully. “Fedor reports to me, not the other way around, and my whereabouts are not his concern, nor yours.”
The words come out sharper than intended. Zina’s smile fades, replaced by genuine curiosity.
“This is different,” she says quietly, studying my face with the penetrating insight that makes her so difficult to deceive. “This wasn’t business at all, was it?”
I resume walking, unwilling to have this conversation in the hallway, where staff might overhear. Zina follows me to my suite, perching on the arm of a leather chair while I remove my watch and cufflinks.
“She must be special,” Zina observes. “You never break routine.”
“It was one night,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “Nothing more.”
“If you say so.” She tilts her head, unconvinced. “Though I can’t remember the last time you looked quite so...conflicted about ‘nothing.’”
I turn away, unwilling to acknowledge the accuracy of her assessment. “Don’t you have studying to do?”
“Fine, keep your secrets.” She rises gracefully, moving toward the door. “Mak?” She waits until I meet her gaze. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. To find something—someone—outside all this.” She gestures vaguely, encompassing the mansion, the empire, the life into which we were born.
Her words strike closer to home than she realizes. I offer a noncommittal hum in response, unwilling to examine the possibility she suggests. Zina lingers a moment longer before departing with a knowing smile that makes her look disconcertingly like our mother in the few photographs we have.
Alone again, I strip off yesterday’s clothes and step into the shower, adjusting the temperature to nearly scalding. Hot water pounds against tense muscles as I press my palms against cool tile, head bowed beneath the spray.
Images of last night surface unbidden. I recall Willemina’s sharp intake of breath when I first entered her, the way her back arched as pleasure overtook her, and the vulnerable trust in her eyes afterward. I force away the memories, focusing instead on the day ahead.
By the time I emerge, skin reddened from heat, I’ve successfully compartmentalized the night’s events. Willemina Lamb belongs to another life, another version of myself that exists only in brief, stolen moments. Maxim can afford that indulgence, but Makari Vorobev has responsibilities that can’t be neglected, an empire that demands constant vigilance, and a sister who requires protection.
I dress with military precision in a charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and platinum cufflinks bearing the family crest before adding my shoulder holster holding the custom Glock that feels like an extension of my arm. Each element of the uniform reinforces who I am and what I must be.
When I exit my rooms thirty minutes later, I’m fully armored against vulnerability and against the lingering echo of connection that threatens to distract me. Leonid waits in my study with the day’s security briefing. Fedor will arrive shortly, expecting explanations I have no intention of providing.
The game continues, the pieces move, and I resume my position at the center of the board. The king, protected by many, truly known by none.
Yet as I review threat assessments and territory reports, part of me remains in that hotel suite, watching morning light play across sleeping features, wondering how different life might be if I were truly the man Willemina spent the night with, rather than the shadow I pretend to be.