Chapter 8 Keep Your Mouth Shut, Malaya
Keep Your Mouth Shut, Malaya
—Kira—
The door didn’t open—it exploded. The hinges buckled as it slammed back, slamming into the wall like the warning shot of a war.
Maksym stood in the doorway.
He didn’t shout. Didn’t hesitate. He raised his gun and fired. One clean shot—center of the forehead. The man closest to Valeria collapsed like a rag doll. Another step inside. Another shot. Blood splattered across the snooker table.
Someone lunged at him. Maksym’s boot met the man’s knee with a sickening snap.
He dropped. Screamed. Maksym didn’t stop.
He moved like a machine—calm, lethal. One by one, bodies fell around him.
The man who had his dick out stumbled back, slipping in panic, and cracked his head against the edge of the table before crashing to the floor, twitching.
The one who had stomped on my wrist scrambled for his weapon, but Maksym was faster. He fired into the bastard’s shin, bone shattering with a sharp pop. Blood sprayed. The man screamed, clutching his leg. He tried to crawl. Maksym walked past him.
I couldn’t get to my feet. My knees dragged along the filthy floor as I inched back, spine hitting the wall with a dull thud.
My wrist pulsed like it had its own heartbeat, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
He moved through the room like a god of death—silent, surgical.
Every step deliberate. Every shot a sentence.
The owner bolted for the exit. Maksym’s arm lifted, calm as ice. The shot rang out before he even touched the handle.
Dead.
The last one tried to run too. He made it two steps. Maksym’s bullet caught him between the shoulder blades. He dropped.
The room fell silent.
Just blood. Just bodies. Just me, sitting in the corner, shaking like a leaf.
The one who’d crushed my wrist whimpered behind me, trying to reach for his gun.
Before he could grab it, I stood. Staggered over. Kicked the weapon away. Then I stepped on his mangled leg, and when he screamed, I bent down and picked the gun up myself.
“Don’t move,” I hissed, aiming it at his face. “Try anything, and I’ll fucking end you.”
Behind me, Maksym’s voice was calm. “Malaya.”
I didn’t turn.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” I said, my voice trembling.
He came up behind me. “Cute,” he said flatly. “But I’ve got it covered.”
And then he pulled his own trigger. The man’s head jerked sideways. Blood splashed my shoes.
My breath caught. I turned and stared at him.
He holstered his weapon and turned to me. For a moment, he just looked—eyes scanning my face like he didn’t quite trust what he was seeing. Then his hand lifted. Rough fingers, calloused and stained by a hundred sins, brushed lightly along my cheekbone. The gentleness of it made my chest seize.
But just as quickly, he dropped his hand.
I blinked, confused. Something raw flickered behind his eyes.
“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly.
I hesitated. Pain pulsed in my wrist, but I shook my head. It wasn’t bad enough to matter.
He glanced down, jaw clenching as his gaze landed on my hand.
“It’s nothing,” I said too quickly. “I’ll be okay.”
His nostrils flared like he didn’t believe me—but he didn’t argue. Just gave a sharp nod and turned away.
“We need to go,” he said. “Now. More will come.”
He walked to Valeria. Her stockings were torn, her legs bruised.
He gently pulled the fabric of her dress down over her thighs, his movements careful, almost tender.
Then he knelt beside her, checked her pulse and tapped her cheek with a firm, assessing hand.
She groaned faintly, her eyes fluttering.
“She’ll be fine,” he said, his voice clipped.
Wordless, he slipped his arms beneath her and lifted her close. Her head lolled against his chest, her body limp in his hold.
“Let’s go.”
We left the room. The hallway was still vibrating with bass from the club downstairs. When we stepped into the main floor, lights strobed, music thumped, people danced, laughed—oblivious. A few glanced our way. Some froze. But no one dared stop us.
Outside, the night air hit me like ice. Maksym opened the passenger side door and slid Valeria into the backseat with surprising gentleness.
He turned to me. “I’ll take you home.”
“No.” My voice cracked. “They think I’m staying at Valeria’s. Please. If they see me—”
“Fine. I’ll drop you at her place.”
“No!” I gripped the door. “What if they come back? What if they know where she lives?”
“They’re not coming,” he said flatly. “Not after tonight.”
“But what if she gets worse?” I whispered.
His jaw clenched.
“Please.”
He stared at me for a long beat, then shook his head.
“Fine, I'll take you to my place. But you don’t talk. You don’t touch anything. You stay out of my way.”
“Okay,” I said, a strange sense of relief settling in my chest.
“Get in.”
The drive was dead silent.
I sat curled into myself, eyes fixed on the passing blur of city lights outside the window. I didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe too loud. I just sat there, my fingers kept drifting to my mouth, chewing at the edge of a nail, then the skin beside it, replaying every second.
I’d seen death before, and it didn’t scare me.
Those men deserved every ounce of suffering they didn’t get.
What terrified me was the memory of my friend lying there, drugged, exposed, powerless.
Knowing my turn was coming. I gagged at the thought and looked back at Valeria now, sprawled across the seat, breathing peacefully, and felt something finally loosen in my chest.
I didn’t know how he found us, I didn’t care, he came for me and that was all it mattered. Even if he was back being a dick to me.
He didn’t look at me once during the drive. Just stared at the road like it had personally offended him, jaw locked tight, knuckles white on the wheel. If the Reaper had an off-switch, he hadn’t found it yet.
I didn’t even know why I said it. Maybe because I didn’t know what else to say. But I looked at him and breathed the words anyway.
“Thank you.”
His eyes stayed on the road, deliberately avoiding me, and he exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Don’t,” he said. “I don’t need it. I don’t want it.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Then he exploded.
“What the fuck were you doing there?”
“I didn’t know—”
“You never know. That’s your fucking problem. You act like you’re bulletproof. You’re not.”
Why did I feel like I’d just been grounded by someone who had every right to do it?
He scolded me like I was a teenager sneaking in through the window, like he was the one who’d been waiting up all night.
And even as my face burned with shame, even as I told myself I deserved every word, something in me clenched.
He looked so alive when he was angry. So dangerous.
So goddamn hot. I knew I was being irrational.
But if acting like a brat got me that heat in his voice, that fire in his eyes? Then I’d misbehave again.
We pulled up to a building in one of the quieter parts of the city. It wasn’t a dump, but it wasn’t the kind of place I was used to either. No gate. No chandelier in the lobby. No marble floors. Just… normal. Clean lines. Dim lighting. Too quiet.
His apartment was spare. Minimal. White walls.
Black counters. Hardwood floors that looked too polished to be lived on.
Everything smelled faintly of pine and gun oil.
The living room was wide and uncluttered—no photos, no decorations, not even a book or stray coffee mug.
Just a low black table, a modern leather couch, and a flat-screen television mounted to the wall.
A pull-up bar was bolted into the wall across from the window, and in the corner, a heavy punching bag hung perfectly still, flanked by a small rack of neatly stacked free weights.
No distractions. No softness. Just tools and function.
He led us into a small bedroom and laid Valeria down gently, her limbs slack, her hair a mess across the pillow.
“She’ll be okay,” he said, checking her pulse again, then glancing at me. “We need to keep her on her side. In case she throws up.”
I nodded and helped shift her, tucking her arm beneath her head, smoothing the hem of her ruined dress and covering her with a blanket.
We stood there for a moment, the silence thick.
When we left the room, I lingered just outside the door, watching him.
He was already walking away. I looked around, taking in the space again—the cold order of it, the sharp edges.
It was nice, honestly. Not warm, but clean.
Controlled. Like him. And I didn’t even mean the next thing I said in a bad way.
I just wanted to start a conversation. My mouth had a tendency to move faster than my thoughts, especially when I was nervous.
“So this is where you live?” I said, forcing a voice out of my throat. “It’s… tiny, but—”
He stopped and turned to face me.
“Your friend almost got raped,” he interrupted. “And you’re commenting on the size of my apartment?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Next time I rescue you from a club full of rapists, I’ll be sure to book a suite at a five star hotel.”
I flinched. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just…”
He waved me off. “Whatever. You get a room. That’s the extent of my hospitality.”
“I just—can I take a shower?” I asked, stepping forward.
Images of the club still clung to my skin—the reek of sweat and alcohol, the men’s laughter, the press of his boot on my wrist. I felt like I was covered in everything they were and I just wanted to scrub it off, erase the memory of it all. “I feel… I feel filthy.”
He looked at me for a second, then sighed. “Yeah. Fine.”
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
With another sigh, he turned and disappeared into a room. When he came back, he tossed a black t-shirt at my face.
“Here. It’ll fit like a dress. Go.”
I caught it, and gave a small nod. “Thanks.”
He didn’t reply. Just walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka.