“I am well aware.”
“And why does it sound like you justhatethat little fact? Don’t think women should be able to defend themselves? Be good at their jobs?”
When he finally looks at me, I see my words have had the desired effect of lighting that frustrated spark behind his eyes. I recognize that I shouldn’t needle, but he’s the most honest when that damn stoic mask is broken.
He’s in front of me in two strides of those long ass legs and his voice is low, probably to keep our gentle guest from hearing, but the brutality behind it is still there.
“Why is your job fighting nobodies like Johnathan fucking Davini? You’re aMorelli—and moreover, you are mywife.”
“And God forbid a woman has a life outside of being a wife.”
I resent having to look so many inches up to meet his eyes.
The muscle in his strong jaw ticks as he visibly attempts to put a cap on his reply. When he speaks again, his voice is low and level. “Do you know how this looks? When you go places with cuts and bruises on your face? It looks like?—”
“Like you’re not so different from your father?” I ask. He stutters to a stop, and I recognize hurt mixed with the shock in his eyes. “That’s why you killed him, right? Don’t pretend this isabout your concern for my safety as much as it is your concern for your image.”
I am being cruel, I know I am, but when I get like this, there’s no stopping me. He opens his mouth to speak but I step closer and cut him off with a pointed finger on his chest.
“I might embarrass you, but nothing hurts more than someone believing you’re no better than your father. Do I have that right, Maxim?”
“This isn’t about him.”
“Isn’t it? Isn’t like your whole thing trying to show just how different you are from your dad? Or are you past all that now.”
Looking down at me, Maxim blinks, the anger now gone and replaced with something hollow. I hate myself for putting it there, but at this moment, I hate him more for bringing up this stupid argument again. For acting like I should change who I am to fit his image, when I’ve been bending over backwards to do just that!
The clothes and the smooth hair and the pleasant smiles, I am far from the perfect Orlov wife, but it’s not like I’m nottrying.
“What you do isn’t safe,” he says, not addressing my vitriol.
“This life isn’t safe. I’m used to it. I can take care of myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
I scoff and back away from him. “And you should’ve married the cook if you wanted a princess.”
Maxim presses his lips into a tight line then drags his palm over his forehead and eyes. Exasperated. That’s what I do to him, what I do to everyone. I warned him of this, though. He knew what he was signing up for with me.
“People will compare me to my father no matter what I do, Marianna,” he says. He looks through the window someplace distant. The sun is out in Boston, shining through the glass onto the dark wood floor. “I do not like to see you hurt.”
The admission is spoken so solemnly I must believe him. It startles the mocking expression from my face.
He goes on, still not looking at me. “Thinking about you in danger makes me feel. . .out of control. Off balance. Do you know that feeling?”
He’s well aware that Idoknow that feeling, at least where my family is concerned, but it’s not just for anyone. I don’t spiral when I think about injury befalling someone I don’t care about, if I worried about everyone like I worry about them, I would never have any peace. As it is, I barely find peace now.
“Why?” I ask.
His head turns in my direction and he looks incredulous. My confusion only deepens.
“Do you fret after all of your investments like this?”
He laughs a mirthless, startled sound. “Investment?”
“Business arrangement?” I supply, but that doesn’t feel quite right for what we’ve become. No longer acquaintances, something like friends, maybe? I care for him, I know, and I have appreciation for him and this arrangement. I’m attracted to him, and I respect him, usually, when he’s not being an ass. But, ultimately, isn’t a business arrangement what we are?
Maxim stares at me like he’s completely at a loss. Like I’m stupid, and not understanding something fundamental in this conversation.
