Page 45 of The Russian's Revenge Bride
“And you think isolation makes you stronger. But look around, Maxim. You’re surrounded by people who’d die for you, and you still don’t trust them. You have a wife who wants to build a life with you, and you’re keeping her at arm’s length. How’s that working out for you?”
Before I could answer, she reached up and touched my face, her palm warm against my cheek. The contact sent electricity through my system, and I had to fight the urge to lean into her touch.
“I’m not asking you to change who you are,” she said softly. “I’m asking you to let me in. To stop treating me like I’m going to shatter if you show me who you really are.”
“You want to know who I really am?” The words came out rough, dangerous. “I’m the man who kidnapped you. Who forced you into marriage. Who’s killed more people than you’ve probably met. I’m violence wrapped in expensive suits, and there’s nothing underneath that’s worth saving.”
Her thumb traced along my cheekbone, and I saw something fierce and determined in her eyes.
“You’re also the man who’s never hurt me, not once. Who makes sure I eat when I’m too focused on work to remember. Who watches me through security cameras like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re the manwho made love to me like I was something precious, even when you were trying to convince yourself it didn’t matter.”
“Eleanor….”
“I see you, Maxim. All of you. The monster and the man. And I’m not going anywhere.”
The promise in her voice broke something open in my chest, something I’d kept locked away for so long I’d forgotten it existed. Before I could think, before I could stop myself, I was kissing her.
Not the careful, controlled kisses I’d been giving her lately, but something desperate and hungry and real. She responded immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer. I could taste the sweetness of her mouth, could feel the way she melted against me like she belonged there.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
“This changes everything,” I said.
“Good. I was getting tired of the way things were.”
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, I could have something worth fighting for instead of just something worth dying for.
Outside, Chicago slept, unaware that war was coming. But here in this room, with Eleanor in my arms and her promise of forever in my ears, I felt something I’d thought was dead and buried.
I felt alive.
Chapter 13 – Eleanor
The house felt like a tomb, beautiful and suffocating in equal measure. Three days had passed since Maxim’s revelation about the war, three days since our heated confrontation in my room, three days since he’d kissed me like a man drowning and I was his only source of air.
And in those three days, he’d grown colder than winter in Chicago.
He still provided everything I needed. Meals appeared at perfect intervals, my studio remained stocked with supplies, and security moved like shadows around the property. But the man himself had retreated so far behind his walls that I wondered if I’d imagined the vulnerability I’d glimpsed that night.
“You’re pacing,” Anya observed from her perch on my studio couch, where she was reviewing fabric orders on her laptop. “You’ve been pacing for twenty minutes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re obsessing. There’s a difference.”
I paused by the window, staring out at the meticulously maintained grounds. Somewhere out there, armed men patrolled the perimeter, ready to kill or die to keep me safe. The irony wasn’t lost on me that I’d never felt more trapped.
“He’s pulling away again,” I said finally.
“Maxim?”
“Who else? God, Anya, for a few minutes the other night, I thought we were finally getting somewhere. He let me see him, really see him. And now it’s like he’s punishing himself for it.”
“Or punishing you.”
The words stung because they felt true. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing. That’s the problem.” Anya closed her laptop and gave me her full attention. “Eleanor, my brother has spentfifteen years perfecting the art of emotional distance. You’re asking him to unlearn a survival mechanism that’s kept him alive.”
