Page 10 of The Crimson Lily

I turn to him, mouth agape. I realize I’m not wearing any pants, just my oversized white T-shirt, but that doesn’t matter now.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Complications,” he replies fast, almost in one syllable.

I walk back to him as he breathes in and out steadily. He appears to be calming himself from the tumults of the day. But what kind of tumults were they? What the hell was he doing these past two days, anyway? I really am way too curious for my own good.

“Anything else?” I ask, hoping for a response that’s more than one word.

He growls. “That’s none of your business.”

“Well,” I begin with a way too loud voice and a shrug. “Why are you here, then?”

I meet his eyes.

“Aren’t you a doctor?” He poses a rhetorical question, making it sound sarcastic, almost condescending.

I’m not a doctor—what the hell? How did he get that into his mind? Oh…

“I’m a doctor in archaeology, yes, not a doctor doctor,” I reply. Then I see the smirk on his face. Did he just make a joke? Wow, Mr. Business Class does have some kind of humor after all.

Maksim leans his head back against the wall behind him. Uh oh, he’s unbuttoning his shirt. I see his chest appear, then his stomach and abdomen.

“Fetch me a wet towel,” he blurts, closing his eyes.

Do it yourself , I think, walking to the bathroom and executing his bidding.

I have to be nice, don’t I? When I return, I kneel between his sprawled legs and take a look at his wounds.

Instinctively, I bring my hands to his torso and uncover his chest completely.

There’s blood, a lot of it, and some cuts here and there.

I’m actually not too bothered by this sight.

Is that normal? I thought blood usually made people scared.

I tap a little on his cuts with the wet towel.

He emits a low, controlled growl, which makes me raise my eyes to him.

“Your hair is black,” he comments, looking at the crown of my head.

I chuckle. What a good time to bring it up, Maksim! “I dyed it.”

My hands make their way down his chest, brushing against his pectoral muscles, checking each cut with a careful eye. There are muscles, muscles everywhere. I can’t look anywhere on his chest without seeing muscles.

I clear my throat. My mouth is watering.

I have to distract myself. “How did you get blood splatters on your face?” I ask inquisitively.

“It’s just bruises and shallow cuts on your chest.” I explain where my question came from.

“Your legs have blood on them, but your face is untouched.” I hesitate again.

He’s still not answering me. “So, how did you get blood on your face?”

“The other guy looks worse,” he says simply, with one of his smirks.

Chills run down my spine. I need to know what he’s been up to, but knowing Maksim, I’ll hear another one of his none-of-my-business replies. I go for his belt. I need to rid him of his trousers so I can look for wounds on his legs. It actually looks pretty bad down there with all the blood.

When I pop the buckle, his posture hardens, and he takes a quick breath. “What are you doing?” he inquires, tensing the mood.

My eyes roll up to his again. I see a silver flare. I bite my lower lip, shyly, unsure of what to do next. “I need to take a closer look at your leg.”

He lets me slide his trousers down, lifting his hips up to make it easier for me. I avert my gaze from the obvious crotch. I need to focus on finding potentially grave wounds.

Out of everything he could do next, Maksim grips my hair. This move surprises me. I can’t figure out why he’s doing that. I pull back a little, but his fingers are still clenched at the back of my head.

“Am I hurting you?” I ask as I look back into his piercing silver eyes, the same eyes I saw when I was being interrogated .

At this moment, he leans forward, placing his elbow on his leg.

He pulls my hair back so I lose sight of my hands and can only look at him.

It’s like he doesn’t want me seeing something.

I’m unsure what. I’m worried…?and maybe a little intrigued.

What have I done to trigger him like this?

My lips tremble. I see his gaze bounce to my bruise, to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

“Keep going,” he commands and loosens his grip, but not enough so I can look down.

He keeps my hair clenched in his hand, analyzing my struggle.

I can’t believe it—he’s getting off on this.

I’m not sure how this makes me feel. He maintains the tension of his grip until I completely uncover his thighs and I’m allowed to look again.

Maksim has a few cuts and a bruise on his right leg, but nothing too extreme.

I clean his wounds with the towel, go to drench it in water, and repeat this four more times.

When I return the fifth time, Maksim has slid his trousers back up and closed his eyes, resting on the seat, slouched.

One move and he’ll probably fall. So I help this giant up, obviously struggling not to fall myself, and lead him to the bed.

He lies there for a bit, breathing in and out deeply, like he has to sleep off a long day.

But what kind of day? I just have to know.

This curious impulse guides me to his duffel bag, which I now just notice has also made its way back here.

Perhaps there is one clue hidden in there.

Or in his leather jacket on the other seat.

I go through all the pockets searching for a piece of paper, a contract, a rush order, something.

I do not hear him move behind me.

Within seconds, I am launched into the air, two hands gripping my shoulders.

Maksim hurls me against the nearest wall, piercing through me with an intense silver glare.

Sparkles of stars spin around me. I’m frozen.

I can’t speak. I hold on to his wrists in a foolish attempt to ease his grasp.

With a flash of his watch, one hand frees me and smashes flat on the wall, right next to my face.

A firm warning. My eyes snap wide open in fear.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, suka ?” he roars at me. He looks infuriated, like I’ve just done the worst deed possible.

I’m almost out of breath. Maksim is still holding me tight with the other hand, and I can feel cold tears curl down my cheek.

I am terrified. I don’t want him to hit me in the face like he almost did back in New York.

I don’t want another bruise. I don’t want strangers looking at me and wondering what the fuck I’m doing here.

“I need to know I can trust you!” I rasp, choking on my own words.

He releases me and lets me collapse to my knees. I sniffle a few times at his feet. I try to stand up to escape, but I trip and fall again. His scornful gaze lands on me as I struggle to get back up again.

“You don’t need to trust me,” he scoffs. “My business is none of your business.”

I am overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of guilt. I crawl back up and turn back to him, looking down, feeling sinful. He still has his glare on me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper with cracks in my voice. “I think someone’s after me, and I think they’re here…?in Paris.”

He probably didn’t hear me. He grunts, grabs his duffle bag, and marches out of the room. I don’t know if I’m ever going to see him again. I collapse on the floor and empty my eyes. He’s gone. I don’t feel safe anymore.