Page 23 of Hunter

As soon as I open my eyes, my focus is drawn to dozen lilac roses resting on the pillow where Maxim had slept last night. A grin forms on my lips—the first real smile that has dared to show itself since that night. It feels foreign but warm, as if some long-lost piece of myself is finally surfacing. I glance around, expecting to see him sitting somewhere, watching me like he has so many times before. But the room is empty, and the absence leaves a hollow ache in my chest.

Sitting up, I reach for the flowers, lifting them to examine them more closely. They’re beautiful. Dewdrops still cling to the petals, glistening in the morning light. I bring them to my nose and inhale their soft, sweet fragrance, letting it soothe me.

“Good morning, krasavitsa,” Maxim’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. I glance toward the door frame, where he leans casually, a spatula in his hand. The sight of him—so utterly out of place yet perfectly at home—makes my heart stutter.

“Good morning,” I say stiffly, setting the flowers down on the bed. My body moves toward him before my mind has a chance to catch up. He opens his arms, and for a split second, I want to push him away—to scream at him for what happened, for being the reason I was taken, for all the chaos that followed.

But I don’t. Against my better judgment, I step into his embrace, anger and longing twisting inside me like a knot. His hands glide up and down my back in those slow, familiar strokes that should comfort me but only make me feel more conflicted. My face presses into his shirt, and I hate that the scent of him feels like home.

I’m furious—furious at him, at myself, at the whole damn situation. Yet, here I am, clinging to him when I should be shoving him away. I tell myself it’s just for a moment, just until I can pull myself together. But deep down, I know the war inside me isn’t ending anytime soon.

“I made breakfast,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a hint of pride.

I pull back slightly, tilting my head to look up at him. My eyebrows arch in disbelief.

“Never thought I’d see the day when Maxim Volkov, the head of the Russian mob, would be domesticated.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement before he bends down to kiss the crown of my head.

He steps back, his hands firm but gentle on my shoulders, his blue eyes locked on mine. There’s a storm of emotions swirling there—love, regret, hope—and it nearly steals my breath.

“Moya lyubov.” He gives me a swift soft kiss on the corner of my lips, causing my flutters to form in my stomach. “I’ll cook every one of our meals and even do the laundry for the rest of our lives,” Maxim says, his voice a mix of playful and earnest, “if it means I get to see that beautiful smile painted on your lips every day.” My heart stirs at his words, but there’s a part of me that hesitates, wary of how much I want to believe him. Things between us are far from resolved. I’m still terrified, still broken, and the resentment I feel hasn’t faded. But right now, with his arms around me and his voice soft with promise, I want to cling to this fleeting happiness.

“I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Volkov,” I tease, a smile tugging at my lips. “Now, let’s see if your cooking lives up to the hype.”

Before I can take a step toward the kitchen, Maxim sweeps me off my feet, carrying me bridal-style down the hallway.

“Maxim,” I yelp, wrapping my arms around his neck for balance. “I can walk, you know.”

He stops abruptly, his expression shifting into something unreadable, almost serious. I stare back at him, silently pleading with my eyes. Please don’t ruin this moment. Whatever he’s about to say, I’m not ready to hear it.

He seems to get the hint and continues walking, gently setting me in a dining table chair before returning to the kitchen.

I watch him move around with practiced ease, grabbing utensils and plating food as if he has been cooking in this kitchen for years.

“You seem awfully comfortable in my kitchen,” I remark, unable to keep the note of teasing from my voice.

He pauses, his back to me, his shoulders stiffening. “I stayed here while you were gone,” he says, his voice low, a mix of anger and sorrow bleeding into his words. My heart twists at the rawness in his tone. He turns around, his shoulders tense, his hand dragging through his hair. “I was out of my fucking mind. Didn’t know what to do. So, I stayed, every night, hoping…” His voice catches, and he exhales sharply. “Hoping you’d walk through those doors. That it was all just a nightmare.” He kneels in front of me, his blue eyes clouded with pain. “You have no idea what I did to find you. Every lead, every damn path—it was always a dead end.” He presses his head against my shoulder, his voice breaking as he whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” Tears fall from his eyes, and my heart plummets. I want to tell him it’s okay to erase the guilt carved into his face, but the words won’t come. It’s not okay, not yet. All I can do is place a hand onhis head and let him stay there, holding onto me like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

This whole time, I was so consumed with anger—so furious that he hadn’t saved me—that I never stopped to consider how hard he might have tried.

Does knowing change anything?

No. The anger and resentment I feel still burn, smoldering in the pit of my stomach. Forgiveness will take time. We’ll have to move slowly.

He rests his head against my shoulder, whispering, “I’m sorry” over and over again. The words are a mantra filled with desperation. I can’t bring myself to respond, to tell him it’s okay, because right now, it’s not.

All I can do is stroke his hair, offering a silent promise that I’ll try. He stays like this for a couple more minutes before going back to the kitchen and serving us.

The quiet during breakfast is a welcome reprieve. No words are needed as we sit together, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between us. It’s not perfect, but it’s peaceful—a fragile moment of normalcy I’m not ready to let go of. But that peace shatters when he tells me to change into gym clothes. Now, I’m standing in the middle of his massive home gym, staring at more workout equipment than any person could possibly need. My chest tightens. I wanted to learn to fight, but this…this feels like too much.

On the way here, I spoke to the physical therapist about learning to fight, half-expecting him to tell me it was a terrible idea. Instead, he said it shouldn’t cause any complications—as long as I don’t overdo it. Even with a full recovery, he insisted I take it slow, easing into it rather than throwing my body into something too intense too soon.

“Come on, Sophia. I’m waiting,” Maxim taunts from the center of the boxing ring, his voice carrying a sharp edge. Hegestures for me to join him with a curl of his fingers, his confidence both infuriating and intimidating.

My shoulders slump as I take in the gym again: the rows of gleaming dumbbells, the ellipticals, and the enormous boxing ring dominating the space. What the hell did I get myself into? I wanted him to teach me to fight, not throw me into this. I glance back at him wrapping his hands in white bandages, his movements swift and practiced. He looks every bit the ruthless mob boss I know him to be.

“We don’t have all day,” he calls, his tone turning sharp. “Get in here now, or I’ll bring you in myself.”

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