6. Maksim
MAKSIM
Sleeping with Aria was a mistake.
I know this the moment I leave the library that first night, my shirt torn from her nails, scratches burning on my neck that everyone will see in the morning.
I know it when I lie in my bed alone and can still smell her on my skin and still feel the ghost of her wrapped around me.
I know it’s a mistake.
And I immediately want to do it again.
Over the next two weeks, we fall into a pattern that’s as destructive as it is inevitable. We fight during the day and then at night we fall into bed together and channel all that rage into something physical.
It’s definitely not love making. It’s pure fucking, both of us trying to hurt each other.
She claws at my back hard enough to draw blood.
I leave marks on her body that she has to hide under long sleeves and heavy concealer. We fuck like we’re at war, and maybe we are.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she tells me afterward, every single time. She’s lying in her bed and her voice is devoid of any emotion even though her body is still trembling. “This is just physical.”
“Agreed,” I say, because what else can I say? She still won’t tell me what she’s really hiding. We can share our bodies but not our secrets.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
But even as we’re destroying each other at night, something else is growing during the day. Something that matters more than the complicated mess between Aria and me.
Daniel is blooming.
“Maksim?” His voice comes from the doorway of my office, tentative and soft. “Are you busy?”
I look up from the financial reports spread across my desk and feel my chest tighten the way it does every time I see him.
My son.
Six weeks in my home, and he looks like a different child. His face has filled out, the hollow look around his eyes gone.
His hair is getting longer again, falling into his eyes.
He’s wearing shorts that fit properly and a blue shirt that brings out the gray in his eyes.
My eyes. Sokolov eyes.
“I’m never too busy for you.” I close the laptop. “Come in.”
He walks in carrying a book. It’s one of the adventure stories I’ve been reading to him at bedtime.
He’s discovered a love of pirates and explorers, stories about brave men doing dangerous things. Sometimes I wonder if he’s trying to understand me through these stories.
“I finished this one.” He holds up the book. “Do we have more?”
“I’m sure we do. We can look in the library after lunch.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “Want to sit with me for a bit?”
He nods and climbs into the leather chair, his feet dangling well above the floor.
He’s still small for his age, but he’s growing like a weed, his clothes are already getting snug. His cheeks are rosy and bright with childhood too.
“What are you working on?” he asks, eyeing the papers with curiosity.
“Boring adult things.” I shuffle them aside. “Numbers and reports. Nothing interesting.”
“Is it about the organization?” He says the word carefully, making sure he says it properly. “The one you told me about?”
I’ve been careful about what I tell him.
He knows I work for my brother Nikolai. He knows we run a business that helps protect our community—a child-friendly version of the truth that isn’t quite a lie.
He knows our family came from Russia originally and we settled in Brighton Beach, that the Sokolov name means something.
What he doesn’t know is exactly what that protection entails. The violence. The blood. The things his mother ran from.
“Yes,” I say simply. “It’s about the organization.”
“Do I have to work for it when I grow up?” His eyes are wide and curious. But there’s no hint of fear in them. He’s clearly just wondering about his future.
“Only if you want to.” I lean back in my chair. “You can be whatever you want, Daniel. Doctor, lawyer, artist, anything. The organization is there if you want it, but it’s not required.”
“What if I wanted to be a pirate?” There’s a hint of a smile on his face, and I can feel my own lips twitch in response.
“Then I’d buy you the best ship money can buy,” I tell him seriously. “And probably have a heart attack every time you went to sea.”
His laugh is genuine and the sound is better than any victory over rivals. This is what matters. This moment. This boy.
“Can I ask you something?” His expression turns serious again.
I incline my head. “Anything.”
“Why didn’t you and Mama get married?” His face is serious, eyes locked on mine. “Mama always said that when you love someone, you get married and live happily ever after.”
Well, fuck me. How do I explain to a seven-year-old that his mother saw something and ran without giving me a chance to explain and we’ve spent eight years apart because of that?
“It’s complicated,” I say finally, the word that never gives him the answer needs, chuckling softly at the scowl that’s crossed his face.
“Your mother and I…” I hunt for the right words.
“We cared about each other very much. But sometimes that’s not enough.
Sometimes people want different things, or they’re scared of the same things, and they can’t find a way to make it work. ”
“Are you still trying to make it work?” he asks hopefully.
I think about last night. Aria was underneath me, nails digging into my shoulders, gasping my name. We fight and fuck and can’t seem to exist in the same space without combusting.
“I don’t know,” I admit, hating how his face falls in disappointment. “We’re trying to figure out how to be in each other’s lives for you.”
“I wish you didn’t fight so much.” He kicks his legs morosely and stares at the floor. “It makes my stomach hurt.”
Guilt curdles in my stomach and I suddenly feel sick. Of course our constant warfare is affecting him. He’s a child caught between parents who can barely stand to be in the same room without tearing each other apart.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him sincerely as I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “Your mother and I are both trying. We just…we have a lot to work through.”
“Because of the thing she saw?” He says it so casually, and I freeze, my mouth drying. There’s no way, right? There’s no fucking way Aria would have told our child what she saw that night. Right?
“What thing?” I ask, trying to sound uninterested but probably fail miserably.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “But sometimes when she thinks I’m asleep, she talks to herself. And she says she can’t tell you because it’s too dangerous. That if you knew what she saw, you might—” He stops, his face scrunching up. “I don’t remember the rest. But it scared her.”
My mind is racing. What she saw. What I might do if I knew. The pieces are there, scattered across eight years, but I can’t quite fit them together.
“Your mama is very brave,” I say carefully. “And she loves you more than anything in the world. Whatever she’s afraid of, she’s trying to protect you from it.”
“But you wouldn’t hurt us,” he points out and my chest aches at that. The way he says it as if it’s a statement of fact and said with the certainty of a child who’s made up his mind. “You’re not like the bad guys in my books.”
If only it were that simple.
“No,” I agree. “I would never hurt you or your mother. No matter what.”
He nods, satisfied with this answer. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Of course.”
He fidgets with the book in his lap, not meeting my eyes. “What should I call you?”
My heart stutters. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re my dad, right? But it feels weird calling you Maksim. Like you’re just some guy instead of…” He trails off, clearly struggling with the words.
I can barely breathe. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been hoping for. The moment when he acknowledges me not just as a man who shares his DNA, but as his father.
“What would you like to call me?” I keep my voice gentle, careful not to push.
He shrugs, still not looking at me. “I don’t know. What do other kids call their dads?”
“Some say Dad. Or Papa. Or Father, though that’s pretty formal.” I pause, hardly daring to breathe. “Whatever feels right to you.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, thinking. I can see him working through it. “What did you call your dad?”
“Papa,” I say, my voice raw, barely daring to hope. “Your uncle and I called him Papa.”
“Papa feels too soon,” he says finally. “And you don’t look like a Dad. I don’t like Father.”
The rejection stings more than it should. I want to be Papa with the intimacy and warmth it implies. But I understand. We’ve only known each other for six weeks. Papa is earned, not given.
“That makes sense,” I manage, though I am really disappointed. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”
“What about…” He chews his lower lip uncertainly. “What about Maks? Is that okay?”
Maks. Not Maksim. Not Papa. But something in between. A nickname that’s more familiar than my full name but doesn’t carry the weight of fatherhood.
It’s more than I had six weeks ago.
“Maks is perfect,” I tell him, and I mean it even though it’s not what I desperately want to hear. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
He smiles, relieved. “Okay. Maks.”
The sound of his nickname for me makes a warmth settle within me. It may not be Papa but it’s mine. It’s ours.
“Now,” I say, pushing the reports aside completely. “How about we go look at those adventure books? And maybe we can start planning that fishing trip I promised you.”
His face lights up. “Really? When?”
“This weekend if the weather holds.” I stand and come around the desk. “We can pack a lunch, and spend the whole day at the pond. Just you and me.”
“Can Mama come?” I see the concern in his eyes. He’s always worried about her and checking to make sure she’s included.
“If she wants to.” I ruffle his hair and grin as he bats my hand away. “But it can be a guys’ day if you prefer. Give your mother some time to herself.”
He considers this. “Maybe just us this time. She can come next time.”
Pride swells in my chest. He still wants time alone with me. He wants to build something between us that doesn’t require Aria as a buffer.
We’re getting there. Slowly and carefully, but we’re getting there.