Page 62 of Savage Seduction

Or something like that. Maybe?

With each step, I rehearse the words, trying them out silently to gauge their weight and impact. "Max, I can only imagine how much you don’t want to talk about this, butthere’s something about that horrendous night, the night you were hurt, that you don’t know. I was there, not just in the hospital, but in the operating room. I was the surgeon who helped save your life." Each iteration sounds both too dramatic and not significant enough for the gravity of the admission.

The thought of his reaction sends a shiver of anxiety through me. Will he feel betrayed by my silence up until now? I could explain I only just found out myself. Or will he understand my hesitation, see it as a symptom of my deep feelings for him, rather than as deceit? The possibility of losing what we have only started, what we could have, looms large, casting a long shadow over my hopes.

Yet, amidst the swirling doubts, a resolve solidifies within me. This is the only way forward. Our relationship deserves a foundation built on total transparency, no shadows between us. I care about him too much to allow fear to dictate our future. It’s a risk, but one I must take, for both our sakes.

As I approach my home, I feel a bit calmer. My inner thoughts finally settling on what needs to happen. I’ll make time to call him. I’ll set the stage for a conversation that might just be the most important one we ever have. For now, I hold onto the hope that the feelings and trust between us are strong enough to withstand the truths of our pasts.

Inside, I hang my keys by the door and head straight to the kitchen. I need to keep moving, keep planning. There’s a meal to prepare, a setting to perfect, and a future to fight for. The stakes have never been higher, but then, neither has my resolve. Although, I haven’t even invited him over yet, I smile. He could be busy. He could say no.

Instead of starting the cooking process, I decide to take a long, hot shower instead, clear my mind and move on with my day. After the long walk home, I’m not exactly as fresh as a daisy. Stripping down to nothing at all as I head upstairs with my clothes in my hand, I toss the sweaty items into a hamperand turn on the water. The steady stream of the shower dulls out my chaotic thoughts and I feel instantly better.

Max and I will be just fine. I know it.

There’s a sudden loud noise and I turn off the water, listening.

Thump.

Was that the front door? Someone knocking?

Grabbing a towel, I step out of the shower, quickly drying myself off.

Thump.

“Hold your horses,” I say, not that someone outside could hear me. I reach the front door and peek outside through the glass window at eye-level. There’s a male figure walking down my driveway and who quickly disappears around the corner.

Tentatively, I unlock the door, and a slip of paper falls to the ground. Picking it up, I unfold it and read what’s been scrawled across in red ink:Leave!

Slamming the door closed, I lock it immediately. My heart is racing, this has to be some kind of threat. The one word, simple, to the point. Who would have sent this to me and why? Did this have something to do with Max? With what happened a few years ago?

I shake my head. How could that be? His killer was taken out by the cops. At least that’s what the news had said back then. No, surely this is a prank. Logically, my brain did its best to push it aside, but my heart feels conflicted.

There’s more to this story. There has to be, but what?

CHAPTER 25

Max

Iarrive at London’s home at 10:00pm, carrying my backpack full of clothes I’ll need for work tomorrow. I climb the concrete steps to her front porch and knock on the door, waiting and listening. The house is quiet, which I expect at this hour, but oddly, the lights are off inside—strange since London was expecting me.

I pull out my phone and text London that I'm here, not wanting to ring the doorbell and possibly wake her grandmother. After a minute or so, London finally opens the door. “I thought you’d never get here,” she says.

I step inside and whisper, “Is Nana asleep?”

“London? Who are you sneaking into my house in the middle of the night?” Nana steps out from her first-floor bedroom. She's in a flowery housecoat with her hair in curlers, all tucked under a sleeping cap. Her limp seems worse since I last saw her, and she looks like she's shrunk a bit.

“Hi, Mrs. Banes,” I say, smiling.

“Where are my glasses?” she asks, feeling around on the decorative writing desk next to the stairway.

“They’re around your neck,” London tells her.

Nana pats her chest. “I always forget about that darn chain you got me for Christmas, dear.” After putting on her glasses, she lights up with a huge smile. “Maximo. It’s been too long since I’ve lain my tired eyes on your handsome face.” She reaches for me, and we embrace—her cheek pressed firmly to my chest.

I lean into the hug, missing my abuela.

She pulls away and playfully slaps my arm. “You know better than to call me Mrs. Banes. That was my late husband’s mother. I’ll always be Nana to you.”

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