“Darling thing,” he whispers, and pulls me into his chest, careful not to press against the injured side.
My body is acting on its own accord, probably a result of the blunt trauma to my cheek, and three hot tears escape my eyes, unbidden and as unfathomable to me as Maxim’s shock and concern.
I can’t even explain why, only that as he holds me, I cannot keep from crying.
“I’m okay,” I say, but don’t pull away from his embrace. It feels nice, and I can allow myself something nice every now and then. When I’m tired. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
I sniff and try to wipe away the tears falling, then whine when I press too hard against my sore cheek. He startles at the sound and pulls back enough to look down at my face. He’s standing so close I have to crane my neck to look up at him. The concern bleeds into a sort of frantic anguish and rage that flickers in his eyes, the flame hardening all of his features.
“Who did this? God, Marianna you’re crying.”
“I’m not.” I swipe the skin under my eyes, gentler this time, though still wincing at the pain. “It just hurts is all. I need some Tylenol.”
“Who was it?” he asks again.
“It was my fault,” I say, and start pulling myself away from him, despite wanting to stay a while longer. I shake him off and stalk into the kitchen toward the cabinet with the low level painkillers. Maxim gives off increasingly furious, off-putting vibes as he grabs a glass and fills it with water from the fridge. He trades the bag of carrots still in my hand with the glass, then tosses them in the trash before getting a towel and a gel ice pack from the freezer.
I take the pills and lean back against the counter, too tired to tell him not to fuss about it. Fuss he does, ushering me out of the kitchen and into the living room where he pulls me onto the couch facing him. The cat jumps onto the couch behind me and rubs her tiny head and body against my hip.
“Tilt your head back,” he commands, and I close my eyes, doing as he says. The ice pack pats lightly against my cheek, and it feels nice not having to do it myself. “Tell me what happened.”
There are no pesky tears trying to worm their way out of my eye ducts now, which is a relief. “Kinda seems like you’ll kill him if I tell you, and we really, really need you not to kill him.”
Maxim is silent, and when I crack my left eyelid open, he looks like he’s barely containing his rage, but is making the attempt nonetheless.
“Depends what he did.”
I sigh and lean heavy into the side of the couch.
“I had a weapon drop, but Nate and Leo were taking forever, and I’ve done a million of these, so I thought it would be fine, but the guy they sent has a grudge against me so he was trying to pick a fight when two punks jumped us for the shipment.”
Maxim says nothing, but I swear I feel this creepy, intense energy radiating off of him in waves.
“I killed the one that did this, but the other got away because the guy we were meeting was too chicken shit to fight.” I hoped that Maxim would be calmed by the assurance that death was had for the man who actually hurt me, but if anything he seems to grow even more still with each piece of information. “If it’s any consolation, no way did the buyer actuallywantme dead.”
“It’s not,” he says.
“Right, sure.” I agree. “Leo broke his nose on the way out, so I think we’re even.”
Maxim doesn’t agree or disagree, but he does push my hair behind my ear, such a tender motion for someone radiatingmurder, death, murder, revenge, etc.
“But I am very, very tired.” And a tad dizzy, but I don’t mention that part. The throbbing in my cheek has radiated through my skull, making for an exceptionally uncomfortable evening.
“Okay,” Maxim whispers. I’m about to push up from the couch when he reaches around me and picks me right up like I weigh nothing, cradle carrying me up the stairs and down the hall to our bedroom.
No use fighting it. Not when he looks so murderous at the thought of me doing my job. Maybe he’s worried about the optics of his wife having a shiner—what reason should a polished little bride have a huge bruise on her face?
When we get to the bedroom, it’s completely dark save for the light coming from the hall. He sets me on the edge of the bed and clicks on the side lamp.
“Thank you,” I mutter, and rub my eye on the safe side of my face.
I should shower, wash my face, but all I can do is take off my boots. I’m about to lie down right on top of the covers when Maxim tuts.
“Arms up.”
I obey, lifting my arms so he can pull my shirt over my head leaving me in just my bralette and tight black jeans. He retreats into the closet and I let my shoulders slump for a breath before I reach for the large t-shirt he slept in last night and left abandoned on his side of the bed.
He reemerges with pajamas for me, and pauses when he sees me in the shirt, but nods and waves for me to stand up. I do as he says and try not to blush as he retrieves my gun and pulls my tight jeans down my legs.
