Chapter 32
Where It Hurts the Most
—Kira—
Iwoke slowly, as though my body was dragging itself through mud.
Light hit me like something violent.
Too bright. Too sharp. It burned through my eyelids and straight into my skull, and I groaned, trying to turn away from it, but even that felt like too much. My head throbbed—deep, heavy, wrong—like every pulse was pushing against bone.
Fuck.
My mouth was dry. My stomach rolled. Something sour climbed up my throat, and I swallowed it back, barely.
My heart was racing—too fast. It wasn’t just the speed of anxiety; it was chemically unmoored, beating like it had forgotten its rhythm and was now trying to outrun something invisible.
When I opened my eyes again, more carefully this time, the ceiling above me confirmed what I already feared: I wasn’t home. The surface was concrete-gray, with clean lines. No chandelier. No gold. No velvet curtains. My throat tightened.
I tried moving my arm, and pain bloomed instantly behind my eyes.
“Easy.” A voice reached me—low, familiar in the most dangerous way.
I froze.
Maksym stepped into my field of vision, already kneeling beside the bed, his presence overwhelming in its closeness.
He wore a dark hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, his damp hair clinging lightly to his forehead, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower.
In one hand, he held a glass of water; in the other, two small pills rested on his palm.
For a moment, I just stared at him without blinking, trying to decide if he was real or if my brain was still misfiring.
“Take this,” he said gently. “It’ll help with the headache.”
I swallowed, my mouth thick with bitterness and a metallic taste that felt foreign.
“Why are you here?” I asked. My voice sounded scraped raw, barely more than a whisper. “Or—” I glanced around, the panic already creeping in, crawling slowly up my spine. “Why am I here?”
He didn’t respond immediately.
I pulled the duvet closer on instinct—and that’s when I realized something else.
My stomach dropped.
I lifted the edge just enough to confirm what I feared. A flash of pale skin, bare thighs, nothing else. My pulse spiked again, slamming hard against my ribs.
“Why am I naked?” The question came out sharp and brittle. “Did we—”
“No.” His answer was immediate, firm, nearly angry. “Of course not.”
He set the glass on the bedside table but kept the pills in his hand.
“Your clothes were soaked,” he said, his tone slower now. “You were freezing. I had to get you warm.”
I studied his face, hunting for the lie, the fracture, the tell that would prove he was playing me. Nothing. Just bone-deep exhaustion carved into every line—and beneath it, something darker, sharper. Something that watched me like prey and guarded me like treasure at the same time.
My head throbbed harder, punishing me for trying to think.
I took the pills from his hand, my fingers clumsy and numb with the weight of everything. I placed them on my tongue and reached for the glass. The cold water hit the back of my throat as I swallowed, the chill making me shiver.
I lay back, eyes closed, waiting for the spinning to settle.
Fragments started surfacing.
Pain. The kind that doesn’t bleed but still leaves you gutted. He hadn’t whispered it in anger. He’d said it lightly, with a crooked smile, like it cost him nothing to erase me in front of a room full of witnesses.
I don’t feel shit for you.
Then Valeria’s apartment. A haze of smoke. The drug.
I’d never taken anything like that before. I remembered the hesitation. I thought it might help, might take the edge off.
Instead, my heart had started racing like it wanted to tear free from my chest. Too fast. Too hard. Panic spreading like wildfire.
Ruslan. His face when he found out about Maksym. The fury. His voice sharp, the words blurred, but the rage unmistakable.
And then—God—he kissed me.
He touched me.
I hadn’t wanted that.
That part was clear. I remembered turning my face away. Remembered the panic flooding me when he didn’t stop.
After that—static.
I pressed my palms into my eyes, trying to force the memories to sharpen, but the pain only flared brighter.
“Stop,” Maksym said, his hand hovering near my wrist but not touching. “Don’t push it yet.”
I lowered my hands and looked at him instead.
“You told me you didn’t want anything to do with me,” I whispered. Accusation and hurt tangled tightly in my chest. “You said—”
“I lied.”
The word landed heavy between us.
“Why?” My voice cracked on the single syllable.
He exhaled slowly, like he was choosing each breath with care.
“Because we can’t let your father know about us,” he said. “Not yet.”
“And when is yet?” I snapped, surprised even by the sharpness in my own tone. “When he marries me off to someone?”
Something dark passed through Maksym’s expression.
“You know I won’t allow that,” he said.
The certainty in his voice chilled me—and, somehow, comforted me too.
I kept looking at him, searching his face for something—anything—that would explain the storm he’d dragged me through.
Instead of coming closer, he dropped to his knees in front of me.
My breath caught.
I pushed myself up on my elbows, then sat up fully, staring at him. “Maksym… what are you—”
“Wait.” His voice cut in, low, rough. Not sharp—just… steady. Like he was holding himself together by force.
He looked up, and the sight gutted me. Eyes full of guilt, regret, something close to despair. A man who never bent, never begged—kneeling for me.
It hurt to look at him like that.
But the memory of his voice last night hurt just as much.
“I’m so fucking sorry you had to go through that,” he said, voice thick. “Nothing I said last night was real. Nothing. Please… forgive me.”
I just stared at him.
Part of me wanted to yank him up, smooth that shattered look off his face, tell him it was okay. The other part remembered every cutting syllable he’d thrown at me like knives—and it kept me frozen.
Slowly he reached for my hands. His grip was firm, warm, unyielding. He lifted one, pressed a slow kiss to the knuckles, then the other—reverent, deliberate. Then he turned them over, lips brushing my palms like he was trying to erase the memory of his own cruelty with his mouth.
My chest squeezed painfully.
For a second, he held my hands there—then let them go.
His fingers caught the hem of his hoodie. In one rough motion, he dragged it over his head and tossed it aside.
I couldn’t look away. The line of his shoulders, the controlled tension running through every muscle… it looked like even this small act of undressing was costing him something. Like he was peeling himself open, layer by layer.
He took my hands again, more carefully this time, and pressed them flat against his bare chest.
Warm. Solid. Real.
His heartbeat slammed under my palms.
He dropped his forehead to mine for a second, jaw tight, like the words physically hurt to say.
“I’m shit at this. I know that,” he admitted, quieter now. “I should’ve said it the first time I felt it. Which was a long fucking time ago.”
He pressed my hands harder against his chest, right over the violent thud of his heart.
“But this—my heart, my soul, whatever the fuck is left of me—it’s yours. I’ll do my best to love you right. I swear it.”
My breath hitched, stuck somewhere in my throat. Did he really just say that? A sharp ache spread through my chest at the sound of it.
He lifted his head, eyes burning into mine.
A rough breath.
“Please let me love you, Malaya,” he rasped, voice cracking at the edges. “Because I love you so fucking much it’s killing me.”
My throat tightened until breathing hurt, tears stinging hot behind my eyes.
God, I despise this weakness—despise that he’d hurt me so deeply and still my body wanted to fold into his, to offer up every last scrap of love as if it could erase the damage.
I shouldn’t feel this. I shouldn’t crave him. And yet...
Before I could stop myself, I reached up and cupped his face, his expression still fractured in a way I’d never seen before.
“I l—”
He pressed two fingers to my lips, silencing me gently.
“Don’t,” he said, voice thick. “I didn’t say it so you’d say it back. You can give me those words when I’ve earned them again.”
His throat bobbed. “Just… tell me you’ll stay. Tell me you’ll give this fucking bastard one more chance.”
The confession lodged in my throat. He wasn’t demanding. He was offering—raw and bleeding, without expecting anything in return.
“I’ll stay,” I whispered.
I reached for him, pulling him up from his knees and onto the bed beside me. He didn’t resist. He let me guide his heavy, powerful body down, still holding himself back like he was scared one wrong move would shatter everything.
I shifted closer and pressed myself against him, resting my head against his chest. His arms came around me slowly, almost cautiously at first, then tighter, like he finally let himself have me there.
His heartbeat was steady under my cheek. Grounding.
“I’m so tired,” I murmured.
“Understandable,” he said softly, his voice low against my hair. “You had a rough evening yesterday. Rest some more. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
I didn’t answer. I just stayed there, listening to his heart, letting it pull me under.
When I opened my eyes, the room was dim. For a second I didn’t move. I just stared at the ceiling, disoriented, like my body hadn’t caught up with the day yet. Then I turned my head and saw him.
Maksym was lying beside me, back against the headboard, a book in his hands. He looked up the second I stirred, the corners of his mouth twitching just slightly.
Outside, through the crack in the curtains, I could see it was already dark.
“Shit,” I muttered, sitting up too fast. A jolt of panic kicked through me. “I have to be home—my father’s probably looking for me. If he finds out—”
“Relax,” Maksym said calmly, lowering the book. “One of my guys covered for you. Told him he drove you to Valeria’s to study.”
I blinked at him. “One of your guys? They work for my father.”
He raised one brow. “Do they?”
I frowned at him, not following, a flicker of suspicion settling in the back of my mind.
He held my gaze for a beat, then looked away like it didn’t matter. “How are you feeling?”
I pressed my palm to my forehead. “I think I’m fine.”
“Any headache?”
I shook my head. “No.”
Right on cue, my stomach let out a loud, humiliating growl. I glanced down, embarrassed.
Maksym smirked. “I’ll make you something. Toast or whatever I’ve got.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, still avoiding his eyes. “Mind if I shower? I feel disgusting.”
He nodded once. “Yeah. Go. I’ll bring the food in when it’s ready.”
The bathroom light burned a little too bright after the dim room, but the water was warm. I stood there longer than necessary, letting it run over me like I could wash off everything—last night, the fear, the shame.
Afterward, I spotted a toothbrush sitting in a cup on the sink. Obviously his. I used it anyway.
He’ll survive.
I looked at myself in the mirror. Tired, but steady.
I feel okay, considering yesterday.
I wrapped a towel around myself and padded barefoot back into the bedroom. Maksym was already there, waiting with a mug of tea and a plate on the bed: toast with butter, jam, and cheese, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
It almost made me want to cry again. But I didn’t.
I just climbed in next to him and said, “Thanks.”
His answer was simple: “Eat.”
I sat cross-legged on the bed, towel wrapped tightly around me, hair damp against my back. The first bite of toast nearly made me moan—it was warm, buttery, and tasted like heaven. The tea soothed everything else.
Then my phone started buzzing.
Once. Twice. Three times. Then more, back to back, like an alarm.
I frowned, setting the plate on the nightstand. The tea followed. I reached for the phone where it was charging, screen lighting up with a barrage of messages.
I glanced at Maksym, confused, and shifted to sit next to him.
Something was off.
Valeria’s name filled the screen. Message after message stacked on top of each other.
Where are you???
Answer me, please.
Kira I’m scared.
They found Ruslan.
In his car.
My stomach twisted as I opened the next message.
He overdosed.
I don’t know what’s happening.
Please tell me you’re okay.
The room felt suddenly too small. Too tight.
I lowered the phone slowly and looked up at Maksym.
“How did my phone get here?” My voice came out thinner than I meant it to, barely steady.
He didn’t look away. “You left it at Valeria’s yesterday.” A slight pause. “I brought it back.”
“So you were there,” I said, swallowing hard, my throat dry and tight. I searched his face for hesitation, for guilt — for anything. “Did you kill him?”
My heart was still racing. My hands were shaking now.
He didn’t answer right away.
He looked at me like he was weighing something fragile and explosive at the same time.
“What do you think?” he asked.
The way he said it—calm, almost gentle—made something snap.
“Why?” I stood up from the bed, clutching the towel tighter around me. “Why would you do that? He wasn’t dangerous. He was just—” My throat tightened. “He was stupid. He was in love with me. What is wrong with you?”
Maksym’s jaw locked. Not rage. Something colder. Deadlier.
“What is wrong with me?” he echoed, voice so quiet it cut deeper than any shout. “I don’t give a fuck if he was ‘just stupid.’ He drugged you.”
“I took the pill myself,” I said quickly, like it mattered. Like it absolved him. “I chose—”
“He got into your head,” Maksym cut in, voice sharpening.
My chest stuttered.
He stood up from the bed and stepped closer.
“And then he forced himself on you,” he continued, voice calm but laced with danger. His jaw was tight, eyes locked on mine—piercing, cold. “So tell me—do you really think that’s not enough reason to end him?”
I shook my head, overwhelmed. “You can’t just—”
“Don’t you know who I am, Kira?”
He grabbed the towel at the center of my chest, right between my breasts, and pulled me forward—his fist twisted in the fabric, dragging me hard against him until his face hovered inches from mine.
“You know exactly who I am,” he said. “And you know what that means—no one gets to tell you that you’re nothing to me and keep breathing.”
His eyes burned into mine.
“I would’ve made the whole city bleed for you, and I wouldn’t have blinked.” He finished, voice breaking just enough to ruin me.
He pulled back then. Just enough.
“So no,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t have any regrets. I would do it all over again.”
The silence tightened between us, thick and suffocating.
“If I crossed a line you can’t live with, I won’t chain you to me,” he muttered, eyes dark.
His thumb brushed a tear from my cheek without realizing he was doing it.
“I want you—but I won’t own you.”