“I’m sorry about Elijah.”
“Don’t say his name.”
I stifle a sigh. “Is that why your hand is bruised?”
He eyes his knuckles, surprised at the injury.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about pizza night,” I say trying to be the bigger person.
He stares off for a moment before saying, “I know you think I’m spying on you but that’s not the case. I never gave a damn if you went out. If you shopped or baked or got coffee that’s not even coffee.”
He likes to remind me that my coffee order is all sugar.
Max gathers his words. “I thought you knew you could do that. Leave the house.”
But for the first few months, I was paranoid. “You never wondered if Marissasent me as a spy?”
“Of course, I did.” He doesn’t let go of my hand. “But you didn’t lie about Daisy.”
He’s mentioned her name several times over the past few months. I was shocked, yet somehow not surprised, to realize he’d found out about her. Then after Lennie’s warning, I knew he had to be one of the people trying to dig up information on her.
It never occurred to me that the story of Daisy proved to him that I’d gotten caught in the middle of things. Then again, he knew Marissa would kill me if I ever tried to go back to a normal life.
Max notices the little details while seeing the whole picture. Maybe that’s why I always feel one step behind.
“You ever going to tell me about her?” he asks, dark eyes studying me.
My lips part but no words escape.
He’s not surprised, but for the first time, I see the hurt creeping over his features. “I could try and help,” he offers.
If I say it’s impossible, he’ll do it just to prove me wrong.
He’ll get hurt if he tries to, though. As much as I want to help Daisy and her daughter, I can’t risk Max. Lev Zimin would tear this city apart if something happened to his son. And. . . maybe I’d be right there with him, helping.
“I had to help her,” I say. “I tried to.”
He understands that it didn’t matter. Daisy is still in Marissa’s clutches. He presses a tender kiss to the back of my hand. Turns out he can be an affectionate bastard.
His knee bounces up and down. “I don’t. . . talk a whole lot.” He clears his throat. “I’m guessing you noticed.”
We’re going to have it all out then.
“I’m the middle brother,” he explains and I tilt my head to the side. “I grew up listening to Elijah’s theatrics and Roma. . . God, I love him but he’s a fucking mess.”
My brows raise.
“You think I’m joking. He went through a poetry phase in high school. All year I had to listen to Shakespeare monologues.”
“Really?”
He nods.
“But it always seemed like you didn’t care about what I was saying.”
“It’s just my face.”
“Why don’t you smile more?” The sharp jawline is swoon-worthy, but when he smiles it’s breathtaking.
