Chapter 19
Max
My ankle throbs in time with the pulse in my pants, both in sync with my heart.
Nika’s strong. I knew she had skill, but even after fighting a few times, I never expected her to win this spar without cheating.
Even injury-free, I still might’ve lost. She’s that good.
From the mats, she studies me with those dark eyes that notice too much, sprawled out like a teenager’s ultimate wet dream.
Her panties ride low on her hips, slightly wet from sweat and desire.
Her shirt’s twisted and pulled taut against her tits, showing off her hard nipples.
Her lips part, revealing her straight white teeth.
I want to give in so badly.
My hands shake with barely contained lust. I curl them into fists, my nails biting into scraped palms. The pain helps center me as I force myself to glance at the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but her. “Get up.”
She stays still. “Max, what—”
“Get. Up.” I grab her arm and hoist her to her feet. She’s all lean muscle and violence cloaked in creamy skin.
“What are you—”
I lock the cuffs around her wrists again. She stiffens, staring at the metal, and I haul her back up to the main house. When she stumbles on the stairs, I lift her without slowing. At the top, I set her down.
She manages the rest of the way to the room gracefully before catching herself on the footboard and spinning to confront me. “You’re overreacting.”
Ignoring her, I drag her wrists to the headboard, my hands working automatically. Zip tie, loop, secure. Muscle memory kicks in from a hundred missions, a thousand restraints.
Once she realizes I’m securing her to the bed again, her eyes widen. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Max, you don’t need to—”
I step back, but the sight of her bound and waiting, her skin flush with life, freezes me in place.
Her silky white hair spreads across dark, rumpled sheets like feathers. Her chest heaves under a t-shirt still damp with sweat from our fight.
Yep, the fight. That’s the cause of this.
If I ignore her hard nipples and the way her thighs grind together—and take some serious blows to the head—I might even believe that.
Fuck me.
Even without the brain damage, I’m pretty damn close to losing control.
All I want to do is stretch out over her and bury myself between those writhing legs, to test her strength and flexibility.
Her hips swivel, and my mouth waters until reality comes crashing back.
This woman got Sasha killed. Plotted his downfall and convinced us to condemn an innocent man. He lived his last days believing his own family hated him. If not for Anika Kozlov, I never would have shot him.
I jerk my gaze away because I can’t process the rage and hunger that’s tangled up in her expression or in my own body. I need to get my shit together. Washing the scent of her off my skin will help.
I cross to the en suite with a sliding barn door. The shower is all glass, chrome, and luxury. Grabbing the panel as I pass through, I yank it closed with too much force. The door slams into the frame, rattling the hardware.
I don’t care if the thing breaks. That’s what I do. I break things. It’s who I am.
I strip off my clothes, dropping them on the black tile floor. My body hums with adrenaline and arousal.
When I turn the knobs in the shower, cold water blasts out from the six jets on the side and pours down from overhead.
The shock draws a gasp from me. Good. That’s exactly what I crave.
Bracing my hands against the wall, I lean forward. Water pounds down on my shoulders and back and sprays across my ribs before trickling down my stomach.
The stream parts like the Red Sea against my raging erection. I lean forward again, directing the water where I need.
Maybe the cold will help me kill these unwanted feelings.
The frigid water does nothing but heighten my awareness, and my cock is still hard and aching.
I’m here to take Nika hostage, not fuck her into oblivion. I should be planning how to extract information, honing the story I’ll tell Roman if I kill her. She caused Sasha’s death. She manipulated and attacked the family. She’s the enemy.
So why does the thought of ending this woman no longer hold appeal?
The primitive region of my brain can only register that she was on top of me, warm and alive and looking at me like I was the answer instead of the problem.
A soft, sharp intake of breath startles me.
Tensing, I crane my head and realize that the door bounced wide open.
Water runs into my eyes, blurring my vision, but I can see her clearly enough.
Nika’s hands grip the slats of her headboard, her back arched, her legs spread. She has a direct line of sight into the bathroom.
But desire doesn’t shine in her eyes.
Pity does.
She’s noticed my scars. Her eyes rove over me, cataloguing every mark.
Hot, all-consuming rage floods through me.
I know what she sees.
Anyone would recognize the numerous faint, tiny burns that dot my ribs, shoulders, and lower back. Everyone knows what they are. Only one thing could make marks like this.
Lit cigarettes pressed against the skin until it bubbles and chars. My father’s favorite method of discipline.
I’ve also got jagged lines across my back from the belt. The imprints of the buckle. Above that, puckered tissue on my shoulder blade from a knife. The too-smooth patch on my clavicle where the grafts never quite matched the original skin.
My scars show the timeline of my life. From childhood abuse, to fights, to torture, gunshots, and knife wounds. Even a few bite marks, but those aren’t so easy to make out now.
Nika squints and tilts her head, and I can tell she’s trying to figure out what caused a few of them. Even from this distance, I notice the way her eyes glisten.
I’m not some victim to be pitied and mourned.
I’m the monster. The thing that breaks people. A finely honed weapon Roman points at problems until they disappear.
I’m not the victim.
I’m the consequence.
I turn the water off and snatch up a towel and my dirty clothes, stalking out of the bathroom with fury burning in my veins. Nika opens her mouth but remains silent. I have nothing to say and nothing I want to hear from her.
In the living room, I throw a few logs on the dying fire—this is the last stack of dry wood from the garage—and quickly change into clothes from my bag.
But my restlessness remains. Despite the shirt covering my scars, her eyes linger.
Unable to endure her sympathetic stare any longer, I walk away. I need to move. Work. Find a way to end all of this. Finish the mission so I can go back home to the world I know. To willing women who don’t ask questions.
After stumbling around in the snow, I end up in the greenhouse. The first night here, I spotted it on the other side of the living room.
When I open the sealed French doors, a thick wall of humidity blasts my face. The temperature is at least twenty degrees warmer than the main house, possibly thirty. The scent comes next, fresh water, fertilizer, and the floral perfume of roses.
This whole room must have its own breaker with a different heating system. Even though the walls are glass, I don’t think we’ve had enough sun to keep the greenhouse warm.
The space is long and narrow, made of glass on three sides and the ceiling. Hydroponic tanks flank the walls, and rows of raised greenery beds span the length of the room in the middle.
Hundreds—maybe thousands—of roses crowd the area, plus various plants and herbs.
I walk down the center aisle, soaking in all the sights and smells.
White, cream, pale yellow, crimson, baby doll pink.
Each plant, every bloom, is perfect. Not a wilted petal or a single browned leaf. No sign of neglect or disease, even after days with no one actively caring for them.
The contradiction throws me.
This woman—who orchestrates murder, manipulates people like chess pieces, and kills without hesitation—tends flowers so carefully that not even a petal mars the ground.
I touch a white rose and marvel at the softness. Razor-like thorns arm the stem below.
Beautiful and lethal. Just like her.
The thought has me clenching my jaw. I don’t want to spot similarities. Don’t want to recognize any kind of shared past or similar life paths or how much she resembles a damn flower. She’s the enemy.
Anika Kozlov is my target. Nothing more than my mission.
I grab the stem below the flower. Thorns bite into my calloused palm but draw no blood.
With my other hand, I tear the flower head free and leave the heat behind to enter the chilly house.
Nika’s exactly where I left her, bound and watchful. Her gaze locks on my closed fist.
I hold my hand over her body. Her muscles tense, and she flinches. She’s afraid.
Good. She should be.
I grind the flowers in my fingers, letting them fall free one by one.
They drift down lazily before landing on her like clumps of snow.
Her breath hitches, and her stomach tightens.
White petals contrast against pale skin. They have a similar texture and smell, the same cool indifference to the maelstrom outside.
But against the dismembered rose, I see the truth. Her skin’s not pure white like I thought. There’s pink underneath.
She’s human. Breakable.
And I’m very good at breaking things.