12. Elira

12

ELIRA

I still don't know what Maksim wants.

It's been four days since he brought me to his home, three days since I offered myself to him. We're settling into a routine like roommates would, barely speaking to each other, barely looking at each other.

I listen for the front door vigilantly every day in the morning and early afternoon while I'm outside of the bedroom. I clean, organize, listen to music on an iPod I found in a hallway drawer, sometimes turn on the TV, sometimes cry, sometimes scheme, other times go through Maksim's things, searching for clues to piece together who he is.

I've found some interesting things. For instance, there's a box of tampons underneath the bathroom sink—not the one in Maksim's room—along with a host of female bath products in the tub. I've found lip gloss tubes forgotten about in drawers, a nail polish stain on the rug that took forever to get out, then there was that bra on the couch the first day.

It's safe to say a woman stays here frequently, maybe even lives here, so I think Maksim must have a girlfriend, unless the things belong to the girlfriend of the roommate I've yet to encounter (thankfully).

It would explain a lot. Why he didn't want me to stay here, why he doesn't want me period… I keep finding myself hoping she'll find out about me and dump him. If he doesn't take an interest in me soon, I'm going to give up on him. I grow more anxious by the second counting on his protection.

Around three in the afternoon, I go to the bedroom closet and wait until a quarter to four to climb into the trunk. Maksim is usually home by six thirty, so it's only about a two and a half to three hour wait, which is better than what the alternative could be.

Once he's home, we eat food he picked up from a restaurant while I question if my tastebuds will ever adjust to the enormous amounts of sugar. If he had anything in the fridge, my digestive system would be less of a wreck, but I haven't complained. There are so few ways into Maksim's good graces and many ways out of them.

But if I didn't care about his good graces, my throat would be shredded from screaming.

Even now, my face tics at the dirty footprints leading to the couch. The TV blares a news program loud enough for my grandfather in his grave, but Maksim doesn't seem to pay attention to it as he types away at his laptop, filthy shoes balanced on top of the coffee table.

He looks well put together today in his blue slacks and white shirt that hugs his biceps, but what was he doing, foraging through a jungle? Better question, how is it possible that he doesn't notice the trail that could be avoided by simply taking his shoes off at the door ?

Tipping my head toward the ceiling, I take a deep breath. When I lower my head, the first thing I see is that damn trail of dirt, and although I know I should let it go, I clench my jaw and walk to the closet to get the vacuum.

His head turns my way when the vacuum starts up, and I spot a tiny glare like I've sparked irritation for breaking his concentration. Yes, because the TV is somehow soothing while the vacuum is a disturbance.

I turn my head so he won't see me roll my eyes. He doesn't tell me to stop, so I carry on, hoping he sees exactly the mess I'm cleaning up. Maybe he'll have the sense to avoid this in the future.

When I bring the vacuum in front of the couch, his jaw is tense, but he doesn't look up from the computer. His feet are planted on the floor now, blocking my path.

I hold the vacuum still and wait, staring at him. Eventually, he looks up, glares for a moment, then lifts his feet back to the table while I finish vacuuming.

Once I'm finished and the vacuum is turned off, I peek at Maksim's irritated face, aimed at the monitor, and suppress a smile.

I should not be glad to annoy him. I shouldn't. This is the opposite of my objective.

But… It can be fun, and this is the most we've interacted in days. Even at dinnertime, we eat in separate rooms. We sleep in separate rooms, him on the couch, me in his bed.

Some interaction is better than no interaction, right?

No, probably not.

After putting away the vacuum, I go back to Maksim to take care of the problem at the source. Carefully, I pull one shoe at a time off Maksim's feet while he stares me down.

"What are you doing ?" he scowls.

His shoes dangle from my fingers, held out from me like they're toxic, and without answering, I turn and walk them to the front door. Maksim springs off the couch to follow me.

" Elira ."

After neatly lining the shoes up at the door, I stand and gesture to them. " Look ."

His blond eyebrows bunch together as his nostrils flare, his gaze not moving from my face.

"Your shoes go here. Or you can take them off and walk them to your closet, but when you wear them inside, you track dirt in. All you have to do is take your shoes off at the door, and your carpet will stay fresh. I won't have to interrupt what you're doing to clean up the mess."

His eyes are wide, and his lips part as he gives his head a small, incredulous shake. "God, you are such a bitch."

My throat constricts, and instinctively my shoulders lower, but I hold my expression neutral. The way he says it, so matter of fact, hurts worse than if he'd screamed it.

"Honestly," he says with a huff. "When you were doing this shit at Hugh's, it was kind of cute, but Jesus Christ, is anything good enough for you?"

I force myself to scoff, hoping my words don't stick in my throat. "I wouldn't say I ask for much."

Maksim rears his head back. I wait for his next retort, brace myself for it, but instead of speaking he shakes his head and pulls out his phone. His fingers tap away while I die a little inside.

I don't need much.

I don't .

These people, all that I've seen so far, have more things in junk drawers than I've ever owned, and I need none of it. Is cleanliness really so much to ask for? Good, clean food, a clean home, an honest man?

No, it isn't. Fuck him.

"What about you?" I ask, venom on my tongue.

He slips his phone in his pocket and looks at me with blank eyes. "What about me?"

"I've been quiet for days ." I wipe my sweaty palms over the white dress he asked me to wear then never mentioned again. The one that took hours and a bottle of bleach to get the blood stains out of. "I've cleaned your home spotlessly, I haven't complained, I've been good. What more do you want?"

He rolls his neck, feigning exhaustion. "Jesus, not this again."

"I'm serious."

"I know." He looks me up and down with contempt that makes me want to cower. "Save yourself some dignity and keep your clothes on this time."

Anger, so hot it burns my eyes, ignites, and I clench my fists. I could hit him, and I half-consider it while thinking through words meant to bite, but my train of thought is halted, my anger snuffed when I hear something behind me.

The door.

I spin in time to see the knob twist and the door begin to open. My legs propel me backward into Maksim before I scramble around him and sprint for the bedroom.

My heart pounds so hard against my chest it hurts, and a fearful chill covers my flesh. Maksim's words are a distant memory as I climb into the trunk and shut the lid, praying he'll spare me.

Why did I do that?

Why did I fight with him?

I cover a hand over my mouth to muffle a cry as I shake and wait for my fate. I know the person at the door must've been the roommate. Who else would just walk inside?

And now he knows I'm here.

I cry harder, so hard I bite my hand instead of using it to muffle my sounds.

Maksim

My lips are spread wide in a grin, and a chuckle lodges in my throat, held there tightly until Elira is out of sight. It erupts as I turn to Alik, a Bratva enforcer, but my amusement doesn't rub off on him.

He stands like a statue with mismatched eyes—one brown, one oddly red—so cold, I'd think something was wrong if it wasn't his usual composure.

"What was that?" he asks, nodding toward Elira's ghost.

I turn to the side as a silent offering for him to come in, and he obliges, strolling into my living room with his hands tucked away in his jean pockets.

" That was my greatest pain in the ass."

"It looked like I scared her."

"You did. Want a drink?"

He gives a single nod before roaming his gaze around my home, studying it as Alik does most things. This isn't the first time he's been here, but you wouldn't know it by his never changing, curious gaze.

I walk to my liquor cabinet and pull out a bottle of Belvedere before retrieving two glasses.

"Should I apologize?" he asks, his tone neutral. I'm unsure if he's capable of empathy or remorse, but with the work he does for me, I highly doubt it. There's a reason I prefer him out of all the enforcers the Bratva has. He isn't sadistic, and therefore wastes no time, but he isn't the slightest bit hesitant to commit acts of violence that would make any other man cringe. His complete detachment from humanity makes him utterly efficient.

"No, that was the point of asking you to walk in without knocking. I wanted her to think you were someone else."

"Ah," he says, sitting slowly on the couch, sliding his eyes over the empty walls. I wonder how long they would linger if I had photo frames or something hanging up. "You wanted to scare her."

I don't answer. For some reason, saying it out loud makes me feel like an asshole. I pour the drinks then walk his to him.

Long fingers wrap around the glass when I hand it to him, and he gives me a tiny quirk of his lips and a tip of the glass before drinking. I sit in a recliner adjacent to him.

He stares into his glass when he brings it down. "What a cruel game."

I feel my face tighten as my eyes slightly narrow. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he does have a sadistic side.

"Right… So what did you find out?"

Looking up at me, he folds his legs and rests the glass on his knee. "They know little."

"Little?" I raise a brow. "Little is not nothing."

Without breaking eye contact, Alik slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a flash drive that he tosses to me. I catch it with one hand before studying it as if the information is written on the outside instead of hidden within.

"The organization caught most everything on security footage, which you guessed, but nothing I found points to them knowing your identity. They do know the girl's, but their assumption is that she's on her own. They don't suspect she's with you."

I shift to face him fully, my brow furrowing.

He goes on to explain without me needing to ask the question.

"The footage that they have is on that flash drive." He points to the device in my hand. "Watch it and you'll see why. There's a video of her murdering Daniel Storm, to put it lightly, but part way through, blood covers the webcam, so it ends there. The only other camera on the property is a doorbell camera that catches you entering with a key several hours after the incident. They know you were there for her, but reason would suggest she was already gone and is likely still on the loose, given what she's capable of."

I lean back on the couch and blow out an amused gust of air, bringing my glass to my lips but pausing.

They still don't know who I am, don't even know that I have her.

Smiling, I take a sip of the vodka.

"The wife is calling for vengeance."

Wiping my lips on my shoulder, I shrug. "So let her."

"She wants them to harm the girl's family. An eye for an eye."

I huff. "They're in Albania. That's too much of a hassle."

"For the organization, possibly. For the wife, possibly not."

Tension suddenly appears in my neck, and I roll it out. "What are you saying, Alik?"

When I look at him, his shoulders rise and fall. "I don't know, boss. I'm just here to give you information."

For several moments, I just stare, and he stares back with empty eyes that would give away nothing of what he's thinking if I didn't already know.

He's thinking it might be a good idea to kill the wife.

It's an idea. But I don't like it.

Right now these people don't believe Elira has help. I kill the wife, that changes. I kill the wife, and immediately, my identity becomes loads more important. They don't just find me, they find Nikita. I was prepared to face this with him, but fuck, if all I have to do is claim not to have her and they'll leave it be, I could avoid that exchange altogether.

That organization is not going to go to some village in Albania just to slaughter some girl's family to avenge some cockroach on their payroll. He was a trafficker. He made them money, yes, but believe me, if he was that important, they would've found Elira by now. They were probably relieved to see his death was one of revenge instead of a message for them from rivals.

They aren't going to Albania. The wife flying over to kill Elira's family also seems unlikely, unless she's as crazy as Elira. She's emotional. She lost her husband. It'll pass.

Alik finishes his drink in silence, then I walk him out. As soon as he's gone, I put the flash drive in my laptop, too curious not to take a peek.

I skip over the doorbell stuff and go straight to everything caught on webcam.

The hairs on my arm raise as I watch her with Daniel's hand wrapped around her throat. When Elira pulls the knife from beneath her dress and rams it into his side, a shooting pain occurs in my stab wounds. I find myself absently touching my bandages.

I can see now that she went easy on me that first night. That, catching me off guard, she could've killed me if she'd had it in her. In the video, she looks crazed as she shoves the knife into Daniel's abdomen, over and over and over, so fast he doesn't have a chance to fall.

When he stumbles backward, his hand on his stomach, his head downcast, she takes a strong step forward and slashes the knife across his carotid, sending blood spraying. He spins on his way to the floor, splattering the camera and effectively blocking what happens next.

But I saw the body, so I know. She stabbed him at least a dozen more times.

Shaking my head, I close my laptop. I throw a look over my shoulder at the hallway that leads to my room where she's hiding, terrified of a monster that doesn't exist. Once again, I consider killing her before she gets the sense to kill me first.

And once again, I can't bring myself to do it.