C’mon, boy. Can’t punch your daddy’s killers if you don’t got hands no more, can ya?
We’ve come a long way since then. I’ve grown into mypakhanshoes, commanding respect from everyone under my authority. From the highest-rankedvorto the lowest recruit, no one dares treat me with anything less than absolute deference.
But Maksim’s different. He’s the exception. He’s seen me at my worst and never deserted me, never once wavered in his loyalty.
And for that, he takes a whole lot more liberty than anyone else would dare.
“Looking a little spacey tonight,” he notes as he finishes winding the wraps around my knuckles. “If I were you, I’d tap out early. Go find the girl who’s making your head spin.”
“I don’t tap out.” I flex my fingers, test the tape. “And there’s no fucking girl.”
Then I step into the ring.
My opponent looms, tall and large. His muscles are bulging in a way that screams steroids and shriveled dick, but hey, whatever makes him happy. It won’t save him either way. Nothing will.
Then the bell rings.
I duck the first punch, then the next. Whoever this motherfucker is, he doesn’t waste time circling. It speaks to poor strategy and a brain even more shriveled than his balls, but he makes up for it in viciousness. He’s feral, lunging and swinging and snarling every time he gets close.
A slow grin spreads on my face.Exactly what the doctor ordered.
I lose myself in the thrill of the fight.
But as my opponent’s moves start growing repetitive, my mind picks up the thread again. That worn, dangerous thread I swore to myself I’d never follow to the end.
“Do you want to come upstairs?”
There aren’t many people in the world who can make me speechless, but somehow, at that moment, Mia does it.
“It’s not—” She hesitates, embarrassment creeping up her cheeks in a delicious shade of red. “I just thought you might want coffee. Or water. Or—or something.”
“Something,” I echo.
“It was just an idea.” There’s a note of defensiveness in her tone. “My kid’s sleeping over at Kallie’s, and I feel bad for how… how the night went. I know I can’t make up for it, but I wanted to try.”
Make up for it.
Those words fill my head, crowd it with promises. I know, rationally, she isn’t offering me sex, but the way she says it… it’s tempting. More tempting than she realizes.
“It’s just…” Her fingers are tormenting that lace into shreds, but I can’t tear my eyes off of it. It’s hypnotic. “It’s my fault you had to leave. You hired me to make things easier for you, not cause trouble. I?—”
“It wasn’t.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Your fault,” I clarify. “You said it was your fault. It wasn’t. Ieronim should have kept his hands to himself.”
For a long moment, she’s silent. Like she can’t wrap her head around it—something not being her fault. At Brad’s wedding, she had the same reaction.
I wonder if this is what she’s used to: thinking every man’s lack of decency is on her.
I wonder if she thought it of me, too, in that alley.
“So, then…” she clears her throat awkwardly. “Coffee?”
I’m tempted to say yes. So, so fucking tempted.
Because the truth is, Mia’s vulnerable right now. She doesn’t want to be alone. She wants someone to touch her in all the right ways, to chase Ieronim’s grimy hands out of her memory. Replace the experience with something better.
