Mak stands on the porch, breath fogging in the deceptively cold night air. He’s wearing a thick black jacket, damp with mist, and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow tells me hehurried. His hair is pushed back, wind-tangled and sleep-mussed. He looks enormous.
He looks like The Bear.
His eyes sweep over me, then over the room, then settle on Andi curled into the couch and already dozing off. Something sharp flickers through his expression—fear, maybe, or fury, or something older that he’d die before naming. He makes a cutting motion with his hand, and I realize there are men outside, prowling around the side of the house. They collectively nod, moving more quietly.
Without asking permission, he steps inside.
Andi’s small, sleepy voice cuts the tension. “Mak?”
He softens immediately; so subtly you’d miss it if you didn’t know him. He reaches out, brushing his knuckles gently along her arm.
“Privet, malyshka,” he murmurs. Hello, little one.
She smiles, the frightened crease between her brows easing. “Is Dima here too?”
Too. Asif Mak always comes with the others. As if the men who shadow him are expected and welcome, not nightmares that plague the east coast and run weapons up through Canada.
Mak’s voice is low and soothing. “He’s here.” When I pick her up, his hand moves to her hair, smoothing a curl. “Vsyo v poryadke. Idi spati.Everything is alright. Go sleep.”
Her eyes flutter with a trust that makes my throat thick. She reaches for him, fingers brushing his chest, then relaxes against me again.
“Okay,” she whispers.
He nods once, gives her a look so tender it hurts to see, then gestures for me to take her back to bed. I lay her down, tuck the blankets around her, and kiss her forehead. When I return to the living room, Mak is standing near the window, watching the woods with a stillness that makes my pulse skitter.
His posture is not just alert; it’s coiled. Dangerous.
“Tell me what happened,” he says without turning.
“I heard something,” I say. “I know how that sounds. But it wasn’t an animal. Andi didn’t wake me. It was?—”
“Instinct,” he finishes. “Listen to it.”
I cross my arms, partly from nerves, partly because the intensity in his voice twists something inside me. “You’re acting like this is normal. Like people wandering the woods is something I should expect.”
“It is,” he says with an exhale that could almost be a laugh. “Now.”
I step closer. “Mak, what is going on?” I haven’t forgotten the sight of him covered in blood days ago—someone else’s blood, thank God, though it twists my stomach with guilt to think it. I haven’t forgotten the paperwork he filled out with the lawyer who came to the compound, the generous yearly stipend and investments the families of the dead men would receive.
His jaw flexes. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
That sets something off in me—hot and angry and sharp. “I’m already worried,” I say. “I was worried the second you showed up covered in blood two days ago and pretended it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t mine.”
“That is not reassuring!”
He finally turns to look at me, and it’s like staring at a storm. Outside, branches creak in the wind.
“Roxanne,” he says quietly, “I will protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection. I need to know what’s going on, Mak.”
His eyes flare. “You called me.”
My breath catches. He’s right. I did. “I didn’t know who else to call,” I say, voice lower but no softer. “I didn’t have anyone else. That doesn’t mean I need you.”
“It means you trust me.”
