Page 28 of Broomsticks and Bloodstains
On the train, a man bumped me hard enough to make me stumble. Maksim was on him before I could say, “It’s fine,” wrist twisted, cheek against the pole, the sound of bone creaking like a floorboard about to give way.
“Maksim,” I hissed, fingers on his arm. “Stop. Please.”
He let go, the man collapsing into a wet, angry heap of curses. The car had gone very quiet. A child stared with round, solemn eyes as his mother wrapped a protective arm around him.
“You’re scaring me,” I breathed when we stepped onto the platform. Truth tasted like the bitter rind of an orange.
“Good.” He didn’t look at me when he said it, gaze cutting through the press of bodies like a blade. “Fear keeps you alive.”
“What about love?” The word slipped from my lips, uninvited, stupid.
He stopped. Turned. Something shifted behind his eyes, softer and more dangerous than anything else I’d seen there to date. My heart hammered as he stared at me.
“I suppose that keeps you alive too,” he finally said, and then he kissed me hard enough that an old woman clucked her tongue and turned away.
We walked the rest of the way to his high-rise. Truth be told, I didn’t actually like staying there. It made me feel like a fraud. Everything was all glass and chrome. Expensive. Way out of my league.
As I brushed my teeth with the toothbrush he’d bought for me after the first time I’d stayed, I watched his reflection in the mirror. He was in his room on the phone, pacing as he spoke in low tones.
He looked up and met my gaze in the glass, then ended the call. He came in and rested his hands on my waist. “Something came up. I need to go out for a bit. I won’t be long. I promise.”
I nodded.
He kissed my cheek and was gone.
That night, he smelled like smoke when he slid into the bed. Not cigarettes, though. More like something burned out and hastily doused. He wrapped himself around me, and I pretended not to notice the tremor that ran through him once, almost like a shiver.
He didn’t tell me what happened. I didn’t ask. The silence between us was not empty, as it was quickly filled with soft sighs and needy moans.
Whatever he’d gone to do was a door we both wordlessly agreed not to open—yet. The worst part was that I didn’t actually want him to tell me. Because whatever secrets he was keeping might shatter the fragile, impossible world we’d built.
And for reasons I was finally understanding, I wasn’t ready to lose it yet.
Because I’d fallen in love with him.
Chapter 18
Maksim
The restaurant was all glass, marble, and money—the kind of place where oligarchs liked to be seen. Too big, too polished, too public. Yeah, I’d taken Sofia to plenty of nice restaurants, but I’d always vetted them carefully. We went to places that were nice but remained private and where I trusted the staff.
I hated this. But Boris thrived in places like this. He liked the attention, the way waiters tripped over themselves to pour his wine, the way business slipped smoother when everyone felt important.
So I sat at the table with Konstantin, Boris, and Dima. The four of us filled a corner booth that at least had been half-screened for privacy. Konstantin drank sparingly, always calculating. Dima checked his phone twice, eyes scanning manifests, shipping routes, the moving pieces that kept our trade alive. And Boris—he leaned back like a king, gesturing broadly, laughing too loudly, glass in hand.
“The deal is done,” Boris said, grinning, red wine painting his lips. “Popov has his cut, the diplomat has his assurances, and our coffers will thank us before the year is over. We should toast.”
Konstantin’s mouth ticked upward, though his eyes didn’t soften. “We’ll toast when the first shipment lands.”
Boris waved him off. “Always the pragmatist, Makarov. But sometimes you must enjoy victory in advance. It sets the tone.”
Rolling my eyes to myself, I didn’t raise my glass. I didn’t enjoy in advance. From my experience, men who celebrated too soon usually bled before the night was over.
Still, Boris kept the wine flowing into his glass.
I’d known these men since we were all young boys full of dreams. We’d had such grand plans of coming to America and being rich. For the most part, we’d made that happen. Maybe I was getting tired.
Maybe I was letting my emotions get tangled up in a feisty Latina, changing my priorities.
