MAXINE
“Because I can, but more importantly, because I want to.”
The possessive glint in Winger’s eye isn’t nearly as frightening as the way I respond to it. There’s no anger or anxious indignation simmering in my veins. No, it’s something wholly different. A sharp, covetous sense of longing fills me. It isn’t because I want to jump him, though the thought is there, which should be frightening enough, but the desire for him to care for me, to protect me, almost brings me to my knees.
I was fine on my own before him. I never once entertained the idea of having a man in my life, let alone a brute who is used to everyone falling in line for him, but I can only assume he tapped into the survivalist part of my brain with his ruthless promises and wicked assurances.
Underneath all the bluster and need for revenge, there’s still this little girl inside me who just wants someone to hold her and take care of her in the way it should have always been, and he makes me ache for that in a way I never imagined.
I gape at him like a fish out of water, because I don’t know what to say or how to say it.
“Go get ready.”
The loss of his hand on my neck brings a ray of clarity, allowing me to escape his knowing gaze and disappear into the bedroom.
The door is a pitiful barrier, but it’s one I dearly need at the moment. How am I to survive the next twenty-four hours? Hell, the next who knows how long? It doesn’t matter that he has his own motives for killing Ian or any of the others, because all my mind can process is what it would mean for me, to me.
I know I’m romanticizing him in my head, and I recognize all the reasons this is wrong on so many levels, but none of it seems to matter. I can’t convince myself it’s wrong to fall for his promises, and I don’t want to.
With hasty movements, because I’ve spent far too long lost in my inner musings, I shove my pants down, kicking a foot to get them off my ankle while yanking out a fresh pair of black pants and a fitted, long-sleeved shirt. I don’t even bother picking up my discarded items, because I’m convinced I need to get back out into the living room before he changes his mind and leaves me here.
The air whips my hair back as I fling the door open, searching for Winger, and my heart sinks when I realize the room is empty. “No, no way,” I mutter, pissed at myself as all the hope I built up comes crashing down, threatening to pull me with it as I rush toward the door.
“What’s wrong?” His voice comes from behind me, stopping me in my tracks.
I spin and launch myself in his direction. I have enough time to see his eyes widen before I wrap my arms around his torso. It’s just as much of a shock to me, and when his coiled body relaxes and he gently returns the embrace, I let out a soft sigh I didn’t even know I was capable of.
“You thought I left,” he observes correctly. The deep sound of his voice rumbles up his chest and against my ear in the most comforting way, right before a spike of embarrassment forces me to step back and I’m unable to meet his eyes.
“Yeah, sorry.”
A heartbeat of silence follows, where I almost make a joke about Stockholm syndrome, but it just hits too close to home for me to voice it.
“Ready,” I tell him instead.
A burly man jumps up from a chair in the hall when the door opens. He looks between Winger and me before relaxing into a wide stance, clasping his hands together in the front and averting his eyes. I wonder if he’s the one who banged on the door when I was trying to open the window. I knew whoever it was had to be close, but I assumed they were in another apartment or something.
Winger doesn’t acknowledge him as we pass on the way to the elevator. I manage to keep my mouth closed until he pushes the LL button. “You’re leaving him outside an empty apartment?” It’s not like he has to worry about me escaping if I’m not even there.
“Yes,” he answers succinctly.
“Why?”
He turns to look at me. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who agreed not to question me.” The slightly sardonic curl of his lip leads me to believe he’s teasing.
“I thought I wasn’t allowed to ask questions only when you were bossing me around.”
Winger lets out a little huff of annoyance or amusement, I’m not sure which, and tells me, “He’s there for your protection.”
“But I’m not there. I’ll be with you, right?” I ask as he approaches a blacked out BMW.
“You’ll be back eventually. I need to make sure it’s not compromised while you’re away,” he replies while looking over the top of my head as he opens the passenger side door for me.
I wait until he’s behind the wheel before asking, “Are you not going to be there anymore?”
“Careful, Max, it almost sounds like you would miss me.” His tone is flat, detached.
“I never said I was normal.”
