She smirks.
“Noted.”
18
MARY
The car ridehome isn’t quiet, on account of Sasha neverreallybeing quiet, but Maxim has a tense, brooding sort of energy about him—more than usual, and that’s impressive since quiet brooding is kind of his whole thing.
We swap cars at my sister’s house before driving back to the apartment to clean up. I expect that Maxim and Sasha will just leave me there, but I’m surprised when Maxim follows me inside and up the elevator in silence.
He won’t even look at me, and that guy is always fucking looking at me.
“What’s your deal?” I ask when we step inside the penthouse. Greta pads down the stairs and stretches at my feet until I scratch her head.
“Nothing,” Maxim says, but his shoulders are stiff and he looks pissed so obviously it’s notnothing. I’m mentally rewinding through the day to see if I said anything egregious to him, but come up blank. Until I remember this morning, him acting like Vanessa asking me to do a hit was the same level as asking me to dispose of a body or something.
And that just rubs me the wrong way.
I stalk into the kitchen behind him. “You know, as far as hits go, that was as clean as I possibly could have made it. Thought you’d be pleased.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, a real master class.”
“Oh, come on, Maxim,” I say though it comes out more like a taunt. “You knew about me.”
“I did,” he says. He pulls open the fridge door and retrieves a glass water bottle. “I just didn’t know you were still doing grunt work.”
“Well someone has to do it, and if it’s me, at least we know it’ll be done right.” Maxim looks pained as he takes a swig of his bottle. “Can you really not stand that I might be good at my job?”
“No one should be good atthatjob.”
“What, you’d rather I be sloppy? An emotional mess? Do you hear yourself? That man was a bad apple, one that would’ve gotten to others if left to rot. He thought Cillian should’ve killed my sister, you think he should live?”
“No,” he snaps, too loud, and we’re both surprised by the volume of his usually level voice. He takes a steadying breath. “Of course not, but you?—”
He looks away from me while searching for the right words, like he can’t even meet my eye.
The realization that big bad Maxim Orlov might be disgusted by me is more of a kick to the stomach than I could’ve anticipated.
“It shouldn’t have to be you who does it,” he says, quiet and level once again.
I press my lips together tight and count to fifteen in my head before stepping around the kitchen island until I’m directly in front of him. I move my head until he can’t look away from me, and force his eyes to mine.
What I see there surprises me into silence momentarily—not disgust, but something else. Something hot and familiar, thesame thing I saw on our wedding night, when we consummated this loveless legal entity. It’s hunger and guilt and a fire that smolders behind the storm gray of his eyes. Seeing them now, I don’t know how I ever thought they werejustblue.
I laugh, an ungenerous sound, and grab Maxim’s jaw so he can’t look away from me.
“Oh baby, you’re as sick as me. I just don’t feel bad about it,” I say, the endearment mocking even to my ears. “You liked watching me kill him, and you hate that, don’t you?”
“I don’t want you doing hits,” he says, disregarding my words.
I lick my lips before I step closer, pushing our bodies flush together. Sure enough there’s a stiff length between us, pressing into my stomach. I smile before I push away from him.
He doesn’t like me doing hits, or he doesn’t like how seeing me doing hits makes him feel? Either way, his indignation pisses me off.
“Where are you going?” he asks, voice still strained.
“My sister’s. I don’t want to see you until dinner tomorrow.”
