Page 27 of The Bratva's Christmas Bump

“A few cuts and scrapes.”

“Not that. Your ankle.”

The throbbing, a peaceful, distant thought in the back of my mind, flares suddenly. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. I saw you limping. Let me take a look.”

“What are you, a doctor?” I fold my arms over my chest.

“Maybe I am. Would you let me look at it then?”

Irritation swells inside me because now all I can think about is my ankle, and the peace from the bath is fading. “Whatever.”

“Is that a yes?”

Reluctantly, I nod.

Maxim suddenly grabs my waist with both hands, but his touch is incredibly gentle. He lifts me onto the kitchen counter, then kneels before me and slides his hands down my leg to my injured ankle. The swelling is light, but there’s redness around the top of my ankle and across the bridge of my foot.

“It doesn’t hurt,” I say as if I’ve got anything to prove.

“Not all wounds do,” he says softly. Maxim’s thick, rough fingers slide over my fragile ankle joints and toes. The touch is soft enough to be soothing, and there’s no pain as he carefully examines my ankle. His other hand remains just under my calf, supporting my leg while he looks..

“Is this part of the protection you promised?”

“If it was, you wouldn’t have been injured in the first place.”

“His murder attempt wasn’t in your plan?”

Maxim slowly looks up at me. “I wouldn’t have sent you back here if I knew he was here.”

“But he’s your father.”

“And he’s a hard, powerful man. We don’t always see eye to eye on a lot of things. Where I see an opportunity, he sees a distraction.”

“Which am I?”

Maxim gently applies pressure to the sole of my foot. “He sees you as a threat to the Krasnov name.”

Krasnov.

I know that name. It appears sometimes on the news, often on the magazines that litter the hotel lobbies I spend my evenings in. Old money, I think. And a lot of jewels.

Blood money now, I presume.

“Do you see me as a threat?”

Maxim looks up once more. “I saw you for what you are. An innocent who stumbled into something they shouldn’t have.”

“So why not kill me?”

Maxim doesn’t reply. He continues to examine my ankle, and when he’s satisfied, he stands. An odd sense of loss follows and my foot tingles with the phantom touches he left behind against my skin.

“Your ankle will be fine after some rest. Maybe don’t run for a few days.”

“Fine.” Maxim moves back to the tasty smells in the kitchen, so I swivel around on the counter and let my legs dangle over the other side. “Can I call my parents? They’ll be worried.”

“They’ll stay worried. I can’t trust that you will stay quiet.”