Page 87 of The Bratva's Christmas Bump
“Oh, honey, are you alright? You sound awful. Did you not go?”
“Uhm… I’m sorry, Tiff, there’s no money.”
“What? Did he stiff you? Because I swear I don’t care how rich that fucker is, I’ll blacklist him up and down the entire city, and he won’t be able to eveneatanywhere without feeling smothered by judgment.”
“No, no, he…” I look back at Maxim. He’s speaking quietly and hurriedly into his phone. “He attacked me, Tiff. So I ran. I’m sorry.”
“What?” She almost blows my ear from how loudly she yells.
“I’m sorry.”
“Honey, don't you dare apologize! I’m so sorry. Have you called the police? Do you need me to? I can call them right now!”
“No, no, it’s okay. It’s being taken care of, I just… I’m sorry. It was so much money.”
“No amount is worth that, darling. Don’t you dare worry about that. God, I’m so sorry. If you need anything, then I’m here, okay? I’m right here.”
“Thanks.”
We talk for a few minutes and then I hang up, sinking back down onto the couch. Emptiness fills me. The back of my throat burns and my head aches. In the quiet, Maxim’s voice rises from the kitchen, but he’s talking too low and too fast for me to make out anything he’s saying. He sounds angry.
I hope he’s not angry at Stu. If he’d been there, maybe it would have been different. I shouldn’t have let him stay behind.
Back and forth my mind weaves, finding ways to make the attack my own fault, something avoidable and then something unavoidable. Even with the blanket on me, I still feel his weight against me and it’s not the same comforting weight that comes from Maxim. This is something different and I hate it.
My vision blurs as I stare out the window where the glittering city of New York swells with light and life amid the falling snow. The longer I watch, the quieter my mind becomes until I’m so numb that even my breathing becomes hesitant.
I’m watching the snow fall as my mind loops, replaying that fight over and over again. Time is infinite, and I’m alone in this bubble of anxiety until Maxim’s ridged abdomen blocks my view.
I blink and my eyes burn like I haven’t blinked in hours.
“Come with me,” Maxim says gently, holding out his hand.
“Don’t you have calls to make?” I croak, swallowing around the cotton in my mouth.
“They can wait.” Maxim takes my hand and holds me gently. “I need to take care of you first.”
A protest rises in me, a declaration that I’m fine, but when our eyes meet, I can’t bring myself to say it, so I let him pull me off the couch. Maxim guides me down the hall to the bathroom and once inside, the prospect of a shower sounds equal parts amazing and exhausting. But he’s one step ahead of me.
He strips immediately, turns on the shower and lowers the lights to reduce the glare, then he faces me and holds out his hand. “Let me help you.”
He said once that he wouldn’t touch me without permission and it seems important now as he reaches out for me, but he doesn’t close the gap. He leaves that choice up to me.
After an eternity of the shower running and his hand hanging in the air between us, I finally take it.
From there, Maxim takes over like it’s second nature to him. He peels me out of my clothes and sets them on the counter next to the sink. As he looks me over, he pauses at my hips where a faint bruise rises from my hipbone. I want to tell him what caused it but it’s like he already knows. His thumb smoothsover the bruise with feather-light pressure, then he removes my underwear and scoops me up in his bare arms. In the shower, he sets me down directly under the spray, then turns me to face.
I immediately close my eyes, but not before I notice that he positions himself between me and the door as if he’s protecting me from anything that could burst in and disturb us. The hot water pours over my face, washing away the salt from my tears and the ache in my brow. Maxim’s hands gently scrape my hair away from my face and soon, it dangles, soaked, down my back.
Wordlessly, he lathers up his hands and starts washing me. It’s strange how he knows what to do, and every time I think about saying something, the comfort that comes from his attention keeps me quiet and content. His strong, callused hands sweep up my arms, across my shoulders, and down my back, kneading and stroking with care. At my lower back, he massages into my spine and sweeps back up to my shoulders.
My head drops forward and my breathing deepens, soaking up every second of his contact. But more than that, it’s what he’s erasing. Maxim’s hands replace that bastard’s weight against my back. They replace his voice at my neck, the grip of his hands and the pressure at my hips. He doesn’t stop there, either. He washes my breasts and stomach, down each leg, and around each ankle as if he knows exactly where that brute grabbed me. I never gave details and Maxim is simply being thorough, but it’s welcomed.
By the time he lathers shampoo into my hair, my mind is calm and my body tingles as if every stroke of Maxim’s palms renewed me. My head falls back into his hands and my next breath feels like the first real breath I’ve taken since I left that place.
“Why are you doing this?”
Maxim slides his lathered fingers into my hair, massaging my scalp, and I sag against him.
