Page 31 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

MARY

My bruise is bad, but it also looks kind of badass—emphasis on kind of —so I’m not too mad at it. It’s exceptionally tender, though, and my head still hurts like a bitch. I forgo my usual workout and sit at the kitchen counter nursing my injury back to health with another ice pack instead.

The intercom rings, startling me from my near hung over state at the kitchen island. I meander to the box and click the button.

“Max?” A cheery voice says over the intercom. Elise. It’s Thursday, I realize. Makes sense since there was no green juice for me in the fridge when I came downstairs.

“Sorry, just Mary,” I say, and press the button to grant her access to the apartment. I try not to let her use of Maxim’s friendly little nickname bother me—I have no reason to be bothered, literally no reason whatsoever.

Elise pulls her little cart full of groceries into the apartment, unwinding a pale pink scarf from around her neck as she does. When she finally looks at me, she stops in her tracks, an expression of horror marring her pretty face.

I can say with abject certainty that she has never had a black eye in her life.

“What happened?” she asks, eyebrows arched together in concern. “Are you alright?”

I smile, but only enough to not hurt my cheek, and I know it doesn’t reach my eyes.

“Got into a fight. The other guy looks worse.”

Maxim chooses this moment to brush downstairs and into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he says. He stops briefly at my side to kiss the top of my head, indicating to me that Elise isn’t in on all of his secrets if she doesn’t know I’m only his wife by arrangement.

I slide him the cup of tea I made him when I got mine ten minutes ago, and he brings it to his mouth for a sip.

He takes way too much sugar in his tea, but I must’ve gotten it close enough because he smiles. “Thank you.”

This is when both Elise and I see the state of his knuckles at the same time, undoubtedly bruised in a way they were not last night.

I knew he went to see Johnny.

Elise looks horrified as her eyes swing from my face to Maxim’s hand, and I can’t help but snort a small laugh. Maxim looks at me with a question, but I don’t explain, just stand and pat Elise’s shoulder as I pass.

“You should see the other guy,” I say.

At the top of the stairs, I hear her ask Maxim something, but he’s already following behind me, his own steps coming up the staircase.

I sense a capital C Conversation coming on, so I head for his office instead of our bedroom. Sure enough, the door clicks shut after he follows me in. Maxim’s desk hosts stacks of papers, a leather notebook that I would just love to snoop through, and another pair of those reading glasses he has.

“Did you kill him?”

“You already asked me that,” Maxim says instead of answering. I do not remember asking him this, but I have a vague recollection of him getting into bed last night, so I don’t call him a liar.

“And what was your answer?”

“No,” he says, but he doesn’t meet my eye.

I cock my head to the side and plant a hand on my hip. He runs a finger over the spines of books stacked on one of the tall bookcases.

“I can take care of myself,” I remind him. His injured fist flexes at his side and my eyes narrow on the movement.

“I am well aware.”

“And why does it sound like you just hate that little fact? Don’t think women should be able to defend themselves? Be good at their jobs?”

When he finally looks at me, I see my words have had the desired effect of lighting that frustrated spark behind his eyes. I recognize that I shouldn’t needle, but he’s the most honest when that damn stoic mask is broken.

He’s in front of me in two strides of those long ass legs and his voice is low, probably to keep our gentle guest from hearing, but the brutality behind it is still there.

“Why is your job fighting nobodies like Johnathan fucking Davini? You’re a Morelli —and moreover, you are my wife .”

“And God forbid a woman has a life outside of being a wife.”

I resent having to look so many inches up to meet his eyes.

The muscle in his strong jaw ticks as he visibly attempts to put a cap on his reply. When he speaks again, his voice is low and level. “Do you know how this looks? When you go places with cuts and bruises on your face? It looks like?—”

“Like you’re not so different from your father?” I ask. He stutters to a stop, and I recognize hurt mixed with the shock in his eyes. “That’s why you killed him, right? Don’t pretend this is about your concern for my safety as much as it is your concern for your image.”

I am being cruel, I know I am, but when I get like this, there’s no stopping me. He opens his mouth to speak but I step closer and cut him off with a pointed finger on his chest.

“I might embarrass you, but nothing hurts more than someone believing you’re no better than your father. Do I have that right, Maxim?”

“This isn’t about him.”

“Isn’t it? Isn’t like your whole thing trying to show just how different you are from your dad? Or are you past all that now.”

Looking down at me, Maxim blinks, the anger now gone and replaced with something hollow.

I hate myself for putting it there, but at this moment, I hate him more for bringing up this stupid argument again.

For acting like I should change who I am to fit his image, when I’ve been bending over backwards to do just that!

The clothes and the smooth hair and the pleasant smiles, I am far from the perfect Orlov wife, but it’s not like I’m not trying .

“What you do isn’t safe,” he says, not addressing my vitriol.

“This life isn’t safe. I’m used to it. I can take care of myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

I scoff and back away from him. “And you should’ve married the cook if you wanted a princess.”

Maxim presses his lips into a tight line then drags his palm over his forehead and eyes. Exasperated. That’s what I do to him, what I do to everyone. I warned him of this, though. He knew what he was signing up for with me.

“People will compare me to my father no matter what I do, Marianna,” he says. He looks through the window someplace distant. The sun is out in Boston, shining through the glass onto the dark wood floor. “I do not like to see you hurt.”

The admission is spoken so solemnly I must believe him. It startles the mocking expression from my face.

He goes on, still not looking at me. “Thinking about you in danger makes me feel. . .out of control. Off balance. Do you know that feeling?”

He’s well aware that I do know that feeling, at least where my family is concerned, but it’s not just for anyone.

I don’t spiral when I think about injury befalling someone I don’t care about, if I worried about everyone like I worry about them, I would never have any peace. As it is, I barely find peace now.

“Why?” I ask.

His head turns in my direction and he looks incredulous. My confusion only deepens.

“Do you fret after all of your investments like this?”

He laughs a mirthless, startled sound. “ Investment ?”

“Business arrangement?” I supply, but that doesn’t feel quite right for what we’ve become.

No longer acquaintances, something like friends, maybe?

I care for him, I know, and I have appreciation for him and this arrangement.

I’m attracted to him, and I respect him, usually, when he’s not being an ass.

But, ultimately, isn’t a business arrangement what we are?

Maxim stares at me like he’s completely at a loss. Like I’m stupid, and not understanding something fundamental in this conversation.

He shakes his head and heads for the door ready to end the conversation just like that.

“Wait,” I say when his hand touches the doorknob.

He halts, but he doesn’t look at me. This is for the best, because I’ve got my eyes screwed shut while I try to figure out how to salvage this.

Maxim just told me that, for whatever reason, he worries about me.

That seeing me hurt is distressing to him.

It was ungenerous of me to question that. “Look, I?—”

I release a big breath. His shoulders stay tight and pointed away from me.

I’ve never been good at letting people in, even the ones I’m closest to. I hate when people worry about me because I’m the one who is supposed to be okay . I want to keep everything together, everyone safe, in line, things in order.

“I can’t promise that I’ll never be in trouble, but I’ll try to tell you, okay? Beforehand. Where I’m going, and you or Sasha can come with me, or if you can’t then I’ll make sure I have Nate or Leo and I will try really hard to be safe.”

He looks at me finally, and I pull my upper lip between my teeth and shrug.

“I’m sorry you were scared,” I say.

“Thank you.”

We stand in silence for a moment before I speak again, already grimacing at how I anticipate he will react. “Now, in that vein, I have plans tonight that you are really not going to like, but I’ll bring you if you promise not to freak out.”

Maxim’s eyebrows tuck together, but he nods.

“We leave at 10,” I tell him.