Blood is drying on his hands, with flecks on his high cheekbone. I notice the way his chest rises and falls as his breathing finally starts to slow.
"You're hurt," I say.
My hand moves to his ribs without permission, finding the spot where he took the blow from the rifle butt.
Maksim catches my wrist.
His grip is careful, almost gentle, which doesn't match what I just witnessed him do. It doesn't align with the violence clinging to his skin.
"Bruised," he says. "Not broken."
"Let me see."
He releases me.
I shove his shirt up. The bruise is already blooming dark across his lower ribs, a purple welt against his pale skin. It will spread by morning, but there's no break, no puncture, no blood.
My hand lingers on his skin.
It feels hot. Alive. The muscle under my palm is hard and tense.
It should move away. There's no tactical reason to keep touching him now. The assessment is done.
I don't withdraw.
Maksim's breathing shifts—small, but I feel it beneath my palm. A hitch in the rhythm.
"You killed..." My voice comes out rough. I don't bother finishing the count. The number doesn't matter; the fact does. "I watched you."
"I know," he replies.
The car cuts through the city, streetlights slipping across the leather interior in quick, rhythmic bands. Maksim's blooddarkens as it dries, turning from red to a dull, rusty brown. I drag my fingertip lightly along one vein in his wrist, following it down to his bruised knuckles.
His body reacts.
A shiver. Not from cold. Not from pain.
"I can't let you go," I say.
The words come out raw, ugly in their honesty. Not a strategy. Not a decision. A truth that slips free before I can suppress it. It hangs in the air between us, heavier than the smoke in the restaurant.
Maksim looks at me.
In the dim light, his eyes are black holes. His expression isn't one of obedience or submission. It pulls tight in the pit of my stomach. It is the look of a man who knows exactly what he is—and exactly who holds the leash.
"Then don't," he says.
I stare at him.
Blood on his face. A bruise spreading under my hand. His breathing steadies, his heat radiating into my palm.
I pull my hand away as if I've burned myself and force my body back into my seat. I fix my eyes on the partition separating us from the driver.
Neither of us speaks.
The car continues moving, tires humming on the wet asphalt as the city slides past behind the tinted glass.
I turn my head anyway.
