55
Clara
“I’m not doing this,” I say flatly, gripping the ice pack tighter against my ribs. The chair creaks as I shift, but it doesn’t help. My ass is practically glued to the leather, the oversized armrests boxing me in. Maksim doesn’t move from his perch, one ankle propped lazily over his knee, like he’s settled in for a show.
“Not doing what?” He lounges deeper into the chair, one dark brow lifting as his teeth flash. “Telling Leonid the truth? Clarifying the little… mix-up about Elijah’s last name?”
Shit, shit, shit! This is not good, not good at all. What the hell am I gonna do?
My fingers dig into the ice pack, the plastic biting into my skin. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Hmm,” Maksim murmurs, drawing the sound out like he’s savoring it. “You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that. Reckless, too.”
His eyes flick to the bruise curling under my collarbone, then back up, like he’s ticking boxes on a mental checklist.
“But lying to him? That’s bold, even for you.”
“Fuck off,” I snap, gripping the ice pack tighter as the plastic slips against my sweaty palms. My ribs ache with the effort, but I refuse to let it show.
Maksim doesn’t back away. Instead, he leans forward, the air between us feels heavier. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking to the ice pack I clutch and back up to my face.
“You think he won’t find out?”
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." My eyes dart to the half-open door, to where Elijah's Nintendo music has faded to soft, sleepy beats.
Fucker’s enjoying this.
“You’re not just messing around, Clara. You’re standing in the middle of a damn inferno.” His thumb tapping against his knee.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Get out.” I push him,my free hand shoving against his chest, but the movement sends a burst of pain ripping through my ribs. “Ah—damn it,” I hiss, my body recoiling.
The ice pack slips from my grip, landing on the armrest with a soft thud.
Before Maksim can respond, the door creaks open abruptly; his head snaps up, his entire posture stiffening.
I don’t need to look. The room shifts, the air heavier, and I already know who it is.
Leonid.
He steps in with an unhurried stride, but the tension in his shoulders is impossible to miss. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, his forearms flexing slightly as his hands hang loosely at his sides. His eyes land on Maksim first, dark and steady, holding just enough menace to make the air feel colder.
Maksim starts to rise, hands up in what looks like surrender. “Boss—”
Leonid doesn’t let him finish. He crosses the room in two steps and grabs the front of Maksim’s shirt, yanking him halfway out of the chair. The force is enough to scrape the chair back against the floor.
“Pizda! What the fuck are you doing?”
“Relax,Pakhan,” Maksim says quickly, his hands staying where they are. He flicks a glance in my direction. “Just trying to help her do the right thing.”
“Jebat’ eto der’mo, Maksim, I swear if you don’t fuck off right now…” Leonid’s voice is measured, low, the kind that makes the hairs on your neck stand up. He doesn’t look at me; his focus is entirely on Maksim, who hasn’t moved a muscle.
Maksim tilts his head slightly, his smirk still there but quieter now, like he’s debating whether to press his luck. His eyes narrow, and for a beat, it feels like they’re speaking without words—deciphering intentions in a way that only two people who’ve known each other for too long can. Maksim shifts his weight just a fraction, reading something in Leonid’s stare.
“You know…” Maksim says finally.
What does he know?
