by L. L. Ash
“Do you need another shot?” I asked, reapplying the stretchy bandages to his arms before looking gingerly under his shoulder bandage.
He turned his head to try and see it too, but it was in an awkward place and he was relying on me to observe it.
“Any angry rings around it? White puss or weeping?” he asked me, leaning his head back with a sigh.
I shook my head.
“No. It’s similar to your arms. These wounds are smaller than the others, except this cut here. It must have been holding on tight.”
“‘Til I shot its brains out,” he agreed.
“They were just being how nature made them,” I murmured, applying the cream.
“And I was just trying not to die.”
We didn’t say anything else about it.
“I gotta take one more shot in two days. Just to make sure there’s no rabies.”
He dragged a hand down his face and closed his eyes.
“I can’t believe I got bit by a fucking wolf...” he said with a disbelieving expression curing his lips in a bitter smile.
He rubbed his eyes forlornly.
“You saved my life,” I whispered back.
“While simultaneously making our lives ten times harder.”
“But I’m alive. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”
How do you say thank you to someone for saving your life?
“Yeah, well you’re welcome,” he said, lifting his good shoulder in a shrug.
For the first time in the entire time I’d known him, he looked uncomfortable and almost...boyish with embarrassment.
“Do you regret it?” I asked, half joking, but also serious.
“Regret what? You not dying?” he asked with one eyebrow inching up in question.
“Sacrificing this for me,” I whispered, my fingers grazing over the bandages on his arm.
He grunted out a laugh.
“Oh yeah, I’d trade your life for a few scrapes. I mean, why scar up this beautiful body just for a human life?”
“Your sarcasm is thorough,” I told him, but he just grinned and rolled his eyes.
“I’ve had far worse than this before, and I don’t doubt I’ll have worse again before I eventually die. So don’t blame yourself or feel bad.”
“If I hadn’t gone out there...”
My throat constricted with the thought, knowing that his pain was my fault.
“Yeah, maybe listen to me next time.” He sighed.
I would. Now I knew better.
“I’m sorry,” I said, for what little it was worth.
He shrugged with his good shoulder again then winced at the jostling action.
“Tell you what you can do for me. I could use some coffee and one of those sleeping bags. I’m stretching out up here today.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable down there on the bed?” I asked him.
“I’m already going nuts with staying in this fucking place day in and day out. I’m not going to add staying underground to that list.”
“Fine,” I agreed, “I’ll do whatever you want.”
His lips twisted in a grin.
“Anything?” he asked, biting on his lower lip as his eyes grazed up and down my frame. “Cause there’s another part of me that could use a little bit of TLC.”
“You’re a pig.”
“You offered.”
Scrunching my nose, I chose to ignore him.
“Well, just don’t die here while I go get your things,” I told him, the tender moment between us gone.
“I’ll do my damndest,” he groaned out, relaxing further against the wall as he closed his eyes.
It took me a short while before I had everything he asked for, but within an hour he had a nice bed of two sleeping bags and a rolled up one for a pillow beneath his head. When I placed a little tin full of hot water in his hands, he grinned as I passed over the little packet labeled ‘INSTANT COFFEE’.
“Fuck I’ve missed this,” he sighed, leaning over the cup as he dropped the little brown granules into it.
“Do you drink a lot of coffee?” I asked while sitting across from him on the floor.
He shook his head, setting the cup down for a minute while it cooled.
“No. But I don’t really do caffeine at all because I can’t risk shaky hands. I do herbal teas.”
“Shaky hands?” I asked, then remembered what he told me. “Sniper.”
He nodded, angling his legs so they were bent and swaying slightly under the sleeping bag.
“Decaf?”
“Ew.” He grimaced with a shake of his head.
“But you’re not in the military anymore,” I said simply.
“I’m not,” he agreed, then turned his eyes up to the roof. “You should get one of these for you. There’s one left, right? You look cold.”
The fact that he was changing the subject left me suspicious.
“Then you are still a sniper,” I commented, ignoring his attempt at distraction.
“Yes,” he agreed with a weary sigh.
“Are you part of some...guerrilla group then?”
“Nobody owns me,” he said fiercely, as if that was somehow an insult.
If he wasn’t part of some kind of militia...then what would a sniper do still sniping?
Realization hit me like a sack of bricks to the chest.
I could hardly breathe.
“You’re an assassin,” I whispered.
He pursed his lips and met my eyes.
“I do what needs to be done,” he said, staring dead into my eyes with the cold reflection of truth in his black ones.
“Oh my God…”
“I don’t snipe just anyone. Nobody owns me and I don’t go against my conscience,” he said, straightening his legs again and going so still.
“Does an assassin have a conscience?”
“If you have a soul, you have a conscience. You tell me, kisa, do I have a soul?”
Part of me instantly shouted no. But the other part, the part that stared down at the bandages all over him told me that yes, he did. It might be broken, shattered and bruised, but the man did have a soul. He was still good. Some small part of him, at least.
Picking up his tin cup again, he sniffed it long and slow, then blew for just a moment before sipping gingerly.
“Do you want me to believe you do?” I asked while he savored the drink.
“Do I want you to? I don’t think it really matters one way or the other,” he said, going back to staring at his cup. “But I’m curious. Sometimes I wonder, myself.”
“You wish for something different as your life?”
He sighed heavily and shook his head.
“No. This is who I am. Every other part of me was broken a long time ago.”
“Is this the reason why you decided not to have children?”
“You’re getting awfully intrusive with your questions.”
“Does that mean you won’t answer?”
He looked at me again and quickly sipped the rest of the coffee. Setting the cup down, he unzipped one corner of his bag and held it open as if he expected me to crawl in with him.
“C’mon,” he said, nudging the fabric again. “Keep me warm.”
“There’s not enough room.”
Taking the bag from behind his head, he threw it at me before unzipping the bag the rest of the way.
Moving forward a little, I helped zip the bags together before crawling in with him, abandoning my coat outside of it.
“Are you sure I won’t hurt your arm?” I asked.
“Stop worrying about my arms. Now, I’ve got something that will help pass time.”
“I’m not having sex with you,” I blurted, which made him grin.
“The game’s called twenty-one questions.”
“What is it?”
“It’s exactly as the name implies. We ask each other questions, taking turns.”
It sounded exceptional, because there w
ere so many things I wanted to know about him. The only problem was that he got to ask about me, too. And that meant he probably had questions about my past and my father on his mind.
But it was worth it.
“Fine,” I agreed, turning toward him.
He wiggled a little and turned onto his good shoulder while the bad one cradled forward, arm slug against his chest still.
“Do me a favor,” he said, still wiggling around. “Give me your arm.”
“My arm?” I asked.
He motioned for me to get closer so I did. That’s when he settled his head on my arm an inch from my own head, resting on my bicep.
“Thanks,” he said with a little grin.
His boyish smile flipped me all over again. The man was constantly making me spin with his quiet intensity and playful boyishness. It was dizzying.
The smile on his lips melted away when he said, “Beauty before asshole. You go first.”
I chuckled and shook my head, but I did as he asked, trying not to think about how the rough scruff on his cheeks was deliciously scratching my arm where it rested.
“Alright. Where are you from?”
“America,” he said simply.
“No, where were you born, raised. Specifically.”
He frowned.
“I was born in Kursk, Russia, close to the Ukranian border. When I was eight we moved to New York.”
“You and your family?”
“You’ve had enough questions. My turn,” he said.
That was fair.
“When did you know you wanted to be a singer,” he asked me, staring right into my eyes.
The coldness from earlier was gone, replaced by a radiant warmth that drew me in like a moth to flame.
“When I was seven,” I told him, remembering back to the first time I saw an opera with my mother as a young child.
“Now who’s giving simplistic answers?”
I laughed and dug into the story.
“When I was a girl, before my mother passed, she brought me with her to an opera. It changed my entire life in a few hours.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
He smiled back at me, then motioned for me to go.
“Tell me about your family,” I told him, going back to my unanswered question.
“That’s not a question. That’s a statement. And I don’t like being told what to do.”
His words were severe, but his eyes glittered with humor.
What had gotten into him that he would be so giddy and...entertained? Why was he so happy?
“Tell me about your family?” I hummed, using the intonation of a question instead of a statement, which just made him chuckle.
“Not much family to speak of. I moved there with my mother.”
No other information was forthcoming, but at least I knew he had a mother. And by the way he spoke the title, it sounded as if he loved her very much.
“What was it about me that made you go out with me?” he asked, running a hand down his shorn hair.
“You were handsome, and you had a nice smile, when you let yourself show it. I just felt like I could trust you.”
“That’s foolish,” he told me, smirking a little, but the humor seemed to dissipate a little.
“Yes, I know that now, thank you.” I sighed, and he laughed, then choked it off before holding his shoulder for a moment in pain.
“What is your mother like?” I asked him.
He dropped his hand from his shoulder and rubbed at his eyes.
“She was a wonderful woman, and an amazing mom,” he practically whispered, staring at the collar of my shirt instead of at my eyes.
He spoke in the past tense, which told me his mother wasn’t around anymore, either.
“Are you really mad I took you away from Popov?” he asked next, his questions gaining intensity quickly.
“Am I mad?” I asked. “No. I’m not mad. I would have run away whether I knew you or not. Am I mad you lied to me? Yes.”
“Thanks for the bonus answer,” was all he said in response.
“How did she die?”
“Shit...” he breathed, then shook his head. “Maybe this is a bad idea. I don’t want to play anymore,” he said, shattering the intimate moment all over again.
“This was your idea,” I reminded. “Answer my question.”
He clenched his jaw with a deep frown.
“She was murdered,” he growled. “When I was nineteen and away in the Army, she was walking home from work late at night and got shivved eight times for her fucking purse.”
I gasped, not sure how to respond. Oh God… How could someone do that?
“I’m so sorry...” I started choking out, but he flicked his eyes away.
“It took me years to figure out who did it. But when I did, they were the first to feel my justice.”
“You killed them?”
“It’s not your turn. What did Popov do to you? You were going to follow through, then all of a sudden you wanted to run away. What did he do?”
I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut. “He didn’t rape me,” I mumbled into the flesh of my arm.
“Obviously. That wasn’t my question, anyway. What did he do?”
My throat squeezed and tightened as the memories of Kir’s fingers blasted into me like a nuclear bomb.
“Mila,” Max demanded. “You made this fucking personal, now tell me.”
He was right. I just didn’t know if I could get the words out.
“Kir...he— Tată took me back there to move up the wedding. He knew we were seeing each other, he just didn’t know who you were. They made me go back there under the guise of trying on my wedding dress again, and that’s when he...he trapped me.”
I still couldn’t look at him. I ground out the words as quickly as I could before gasping in a breath again.
“He pushed me against a wall, kissed me, and...checked my virtue.”
“The dirty son of a—”
“He didn’t do anything. He said because I was a virgin that he would wait as I’d begged.”
“A woman shouldn’t have to beg,” he growled.
The sound of his rough voice captured me and I looked up into his eyes.
Anger stirred there, alive and burning hot rage at the thought of what Kir had done.
The heat burned through me too, and all I wanted to do was kiss him.
Chapter Nineteen
Maxim
Fuck me…
I just wanted her sexy, pouty lips and I hated myself for it.
My body was incinerating from the inside out for the woman, scratches and wolf bites aside. I must not have lost much blood, because I certainly had plenty left to send down south to my newly rebellious dick. The thing didn’t know how to go down when it was within twenty feet of her vicinity.
“Did you...Did you ever feel anything for me?” she whispered, her face so vulnerable and honest and trusting.
And I wanted to make sure she stayed that way.
Knowing that bastard Popov touched her—violated her… I was one click away from a full blown freakout.
That girl...what did she do to me? I could hardly even recognize myself anymore. She had changed me, or maybe I was ready to be changed. Loneliness was never something I enjoyed, but that had always seemed so trivial compared to all the people that I saved by taking out the bad guys of the world.
But I couldn’t answer her question. I couldn’t.
So I kissed her instead.
Even through the burning sting of the cut and holes in my shoulder and neck, I leaned forward those few inches and pressed my lips to her perfect, soft, plump, sweet, innocent…
Fuck.
What was I thinking?
At some point my brain shut down and all there was around me was her lush kiss and spicy tongue.
My teeth grazed the plumpness of her lip, dragging it a little as she mewled in pleasure. Heat suffused my whole body like a fever, and I couldn’t tell if it w
as my wounds or if it was just what she did to me.
Lifting my hand, I dragged it into her hair and grasped it as we tangled together, legs twining like old lovers.
“Maxim,” she hushed breathlessly.
I couldn’t respond. My tongue was otherwise occupied.
I didn't stop kissing her sexy mouth until the pain in my shoulder got too strong that I had to relax again.
Mila puffed and panted beside me while I did the same, but I could feel her staring at me and wanting answers I couldn’t give.
I mean, even I didn't know what the hell was going on with me.
So I took her in my good arm and pulled her against my chest, using her side to prop up my bad shoulder before all we were was quiet breath and aching, unsatisfied desire.
She started saying my name again, but I stopped her, interrupting.
“Just don’t,” I breathed the words into her hair. “I don’t know why. Just let it be, at least for now.”
She nuzzled her face into my chest and did just that, staying quiet but taking what she needed from me. Comfort. That I could manage. I could even pretend that I was doing it selflessly. But I knew better. I knew that everything I felt for her was selfish and poisonous. Because one day, she would be gone too, and I would be left shattered to pieces again, but these ones, covered in bloody glue and sinew after Mom’s death, wouldn’t go back together again.
Irreparable.
Some things in this life just can’t be fixed, and I was one of those things.
Mila
The sun was waning when I woke up, wrapped up in him.
Max was still sleeping and snoring lightly, just inches from my face. I didn’t want to jostle him, either waking or hurting him, so I stayed perfectly still as he slept.
Somehow he knew though. Maybe it was the change in my breathing or something, because his eyes cracked open, staring right into mine with every bit of clarity as he’d had when he went to sleep.
“Shit,” was his only response.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
He gave a little grin and moved, sliding his arm off me before settling on his back with eyes closed again.
