Page 27 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

MARY

My attempts to go straight to bed when we get home are stymied by Maxim leaning against the bathroom door frame as I finish my skincare routine (it’s like two steps, but it’s a routine nonetheless).

“I want to talk about yesterday,” Maxim says. Of course he does. He’s an adult, and adults talk about their feelings and disagreements . Gag.

He’s wearing the gray long sleeve that’s so soft and light, it must be a decade old.

“If I can wear that, I will talk,” I bargain.

His lips quirk in that surprised lilt I’m growing accustomed to seeing.

He stands to his full height and pulls his shirt up over his head in that slutty way that men do, then tosses it to me.

He put it on less than twenty minutes ago and it already smells like him.

And good Lord, naked Maxim torso. He’s broad and dense, undeniably muscular without being chiseled.

Like, he works out six days a week minimum, but also still really likes pasta.

A big tattoo of a fully-bloomed rose bush covers his ribs next to a traditional dagger and other sweeping designs.

I want to study them closely, but his alarmingly hot body is distracting me from being mad at him.

Instead, I put on the shirt, unclasp my bra, and pull it from the sleeve before tossing it in a hamper.

Much cozier.

“Talk.” I brush past him into the room, careful not to touch his bare chest as I do.

“I overstepped,” Maxim says. “I was unfair when you were doing what had to be done.”

He clicks on my bedside lamp and unfolds the soft blanket I like from the bottom of the bed. I rub lotion on my legs for something to do that isn’t looking at him.

“I apologize,” he tacks on. With the bedding turned down for me, he retreats into the closet. I glance up as he puts on a new shirt, effectively covering the distraction that is all of that .

I sigh and rub my forehead. “Thank you.”

I can sense that this little conversation is not yet over, so I sit on the side of the bed and wait for him to go on. Maxim walks toward me and I think he’ll sit next to me on the edge of the mattress, but instead, he crouches down in front of me, putting his eyes a few inches below mine for once.

He pulls my socks off and replaces them with the softer ones I always end up kicking off halfway through the night. I let him.

“I want to understand you better,” he admits.

“Why?” I ask.

“I—” Maxim cuts off and sits back on his heels. “It will help me protect you better if I can understand what you do and why you do it. Let me.”

I take a big breath, processing the request. He has a point; it’s easier to keep track of someone you know. I suppose this isn’t so different from me asking to share a room, I was the one who said we should probably know each other. I just didn’t think that meant unpacking all of our old baggage.

But we’ve already come this far; he already knows how I take my tea in the morning, the socks I like to sleep in, my deepest fears.

As he said so eloquently before tackling me earlier, fuck it .

“My dad used to bring me around with him,” I start.

“I was a really nervous kid, but I liked being with him. I had these nightmares a lot, so um, I didn’t want to sleep.

I was always trying to sneak out of my room and find my parents, get them to play another game with me, watch another movie. It worked, sometimes.

“There was one night, though, I had a nightmare. Just the usual horrifying shit my little brain came up with, so I went to see if my dad was awake in his study and I heard noise coming from the garage.” I chew on my lower lip, remembering.

It was so long ago, almost twenty years, but I can still picture it, the fluorescent garage lights, the way I was surprised blood was in fact that red.

“He was there with my uncle, Leo’s dad, and they were.

. .dealing with someone.” I raise my eyebrows at the euphemism and Maxim winces.

“How old?” His voice is grave.

“Seven. It—” I close my mouth, not sure how to admit this thing I’ve never spoken. Not even to my sisters, but they knew, I think. They had to. “The dreams got really bad after that. I wasn’t sleeping, I was angry or scared all the time, I couldn’t cope.”

I raise and drop my shoulders in a shrug. Maxim stays quiet, though there’s an intensity simmering behind his eyes. Sympathy, too, I think. For once, it doesn’t grate on my nerves.

“Therapy wasn’t really—Dad didn’t think that was an option. That’s when he started teaching me to fight. He hired instructors and they taught all of us. It helped, actually, having something to channel my feelings into instead of letting them simmer in my body.”

I remember my little fists hitting a punching bag for the first time. I was so scared of everything, scared I would hurt myself, or hurt the bag, or that when I did hit it, it would break and seep blood so red it was almost purple.

And then, as is the case with anything you practice repeatedly over any length of time, I got better at it. Go figure.

“I wasn’t so scared all the time, my dreams were less frequent, training and fighting were really good for me.”

Whether too stunned to speak or aware that the story doesn’t end there, Maxim stays silent on his knees in front of me. His eyes never leave my face, even when I can’t meet his. I lean my elbows on my knees, heels propped on the bed frame.

“My dad wanted one of us girls to take over. Willa was almost fourteen and she was such a freak, she already knew she wanted to go to law school. Vanessa has always been so level-headed, she was the perfect choice, but she didn’t have the stomach for violence, really.

He started bringing me around with him.”

“His shadow,” Maxim recalls, and I nod.

“I think all of it kind of made me,” I search for the right word, “weird.”

Maxim leans forward and the move brings his face so near mine that I want to retreat, to regain any sense of control after telling him something so raw, but I don’t want to look weak, not after I just told him all that.

“He was a good father and he really, really loved me.” My voice breaks and I have to clear my throat before I go on.

“He was just trying his best with the resources he had, I don’t resent him.

But that’s why I do what I do. To protect them, and—” I exhale through my mouth and can’t speak above a whisper.

“Because sometimes I think I’ll break if I don’t. ”

Maxim’s lips part with a breath and he tentatively reaches out for me. I’m not one to easily accept a peace offering, but maybe I’m feeling sensitive. I drop my arm and let him hold my hand in his. It’s warm, a comfort I didn’t expect.

“You’re not strange, Marianna.”

I scoff and give a wry laugh because I am strange, and he fucking knows it. His lips quirk in a smile, but he lowers his head to meet my gaze again. “You’re resilient and loyal, and your dad knew you were strong. He wouldn’t have brought you around the most dangerous men in Boston otherwise.”

“He was a little crazy for that, wasn’t he?”

“Absolutely mad,” Maxim laughs, and we’re both smiling. “Do you still get the nightmares?”

I almost lie, tell him I haven’t in years. But his candor is infectious and once you start spilling secrets, others have a habit of following.

“Yes.”

I don’t tell him that before I found him and demanded he marry me, they were the worst they’ve been in years. How they’ve quieted some in the last month.

“Wake me,” he says. “Next time, please wake me.”

His grip tightens on my hand, a long squeeze. After a quiet moment, I squeeze back.

“I have something for you,” I tell him before I lose my nerve. I go directly for my underwear drawer in the closet and retrieve the red leather box I stowed there last week.

I steel myself for a moment before I return to where he now stands with a question on his face. It feels more familiar facing Maxim standing, looking up at him instead of directly into his eyes. I hand him the box before I can think better of it.

“Open it,” I nudge after he stares at the fine leather for a beat too long.

He does, shifting the clasp and opening the lid to reveal a gold watch with a leather band. The face is not plain, but dark blue, with tiny diamonds to look like stars behind delicate watch hands.

I study him with apprehension, searching for a sign that he despises it.

“It’s a wedding present,” I explain. “Since you didn’t want the one I originally offered. Sorry it’s a little late.”

I press my lips into a line while his middle finger traces the edge of the band, the watch face, the buckle. I fiddle with my own wedding present, the gold necklace still resting around my neck, where it has every day since we were married. I seldom want to take it off.

“It’s exquisite,” Maxim says.

“I know you already have one?—”

“This one is better,” he says immediately. He sits on the side of the bed, still looking at the gift. “It reminds me of my grandfather—my mother’s father.”

Stopping my fidgeting, I sit next to him and hold out my hand for him to pass back the box. He does, and I pull out the watch. He takes his old one off while I do, and offers his wrist for me to secure the new one there.

“What was he like?” I ask.

“He was kind. Hated my father more than I did. He had a leather and gold watch with my grandmother’s name inscribed on the back. He wore it until he died.”

I can’t help but smirk in surprise at the description. Pausing before I can wrap the band around his wrist, I turn it over and let him look at what I had engraved there.

Per cent’anni

A reminder that for better or worse, he’s stuck with me.

For a hundred years

His thumb rubs over the engraving before he offers his arm for me to secure the watch on him. I do, and his skin is warm beneath my fingers. When it’s on, I stare down at it, both of my hands holding one of his.

He can’t see the tiny tracker installed within. I won’t tell him about it, won’t tell him that I felt completely out of control when Cillian took my sister last year, and can’t stomach the thought of feeling that way again. About him this time.

“Thank you, Marianna,” Maxim says.

“Your present was more thoughtful.” I roll my eyes with a smile. “You gave me something to remember home. This is just to keep you on time.”

“I love it,” he says and his serious tone makes my throat dry. I swallow and squeeze his hand again.