15. Maksim

15

MAKSIM

C hinese takeout hangs from my arm, the plastic bag rustling, as I step up to my front door only to find it unlocked.

My chest seizes, my eyes glued to the gap where the deadbolt should be in place, and for a moment, I'm frozen.

Anya…

I swing the door open and step through while telling myself not to panic. Elira has been stuffing herself inside a trunk in my closet, so that's where she'll be.

Except, the moment I smell food, real food cooking, I know that isn't the case. I halt in the hallway and listen to the sound of Elira's voice. She sounds like she's explaining something, and I stay perfectly still with my ear craned that way until my little sister's voice replies.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fucking, fuck.

I walk that way as calmly as I can, unsure what I'll do when I arrive in the kitchen. A protectiveness takes over me that makes me question why I was foolish enough to let Elira live, to bring her here of all places, to ever think this could work.

Now I have to kill her. Now, having the audacity to threaten my relationship with my sister, with the only thing in my life that matters, it becomes obvious.

What did she tell her? What kind of lies will I have to tell Anya now?

When I step foot into the kitchen, resting the bag of takeout on the bar top, both women turn to look at me.

I expect anger. Repulsion. I expect at least one slap in the face from Anya, maybe one from Elira if she's feeling ballsy.

I'm not prepared for this.

My face is hard, my chest open and broad even with how tight it feels. I expect the very worst, so when Anya smiles, smiles at seeing me, my brain tumbles with confusion.

"Hey," she says as if my whore is not standing next to her in our kitchen. As if I'm not an even more despicable human being than she pegged me for just days ago. As if she hasn't ignored every call, every text, every apology I've tried to give since we last spoke.

"Elira's teaching me to make baklava." She gestures to the stacked dough on a pan in front of her while beaming. I don't have any idea what to make of that, so I simply stand in shock.

Huh?

"Oh," I say at last, and if it's possible to fumble on a single word, I succeed.

The timer on the stove goes off, making Anya jump with excitement. Elira pulls out a pan of something with an incredible smell I can't yet appreciate properly. She sets it on the stove and tosses the oven mitt on the counter. I don't miss how she avoids my eyes and has neglected to greet me the same as I've neglected to greet her.

"Oh my God." Anya hops in front of the pan and waves the steam toward her face, leaning her head back and breathing in deeply. "This looks amazing . Mak, come look."

She tosses me a smile over her shoulder, something she hasn't done in … I can't remember. When she was a little girl, she used to look at me like I was her world. She used to squeeze my hand extra tight when she was excited, pulling me along with her, throwing me that same smile, bursting with joy she couldn't contain.

I had no idea how much I missed it until just now.

I walk to the stove, avoiding looking at Elira as much as she avoids me then look down at the dish. It has a yellowish, solid yet creamy top that looks unfamiliar. Whatever it is, it smells good.

"It's tav? cosi," Anya tells me. "Lamb and rice with a yogurt/egg mixture on top."

"Wow."

Where the fuck did the ingredients come from? I turn my head to Elira, but she doesn't meet my eyes, of course.

Did she fucking leave the house?

"Tomorrow we're going to make blini. Like Mom used to make."

My eyes widen for half a second before I neutralize my expression. Anya doesn't talk about her mother. Ever. Not to me. I didn't realize she even remembered her mother, let alone her blini. She was only three when her parents died.

Discomfort washes over me while I try to debate what to say.

"Cool."

When her face falls, I open my mouth to say more, but nothing comes out. Now I can feel Elira's eyes on me, intruding on something so private that, to her, must feel basic. That's what she's been since she's entered my life, one big intrusion.

Bitterness tries to curl my lip, but I keep my attention on Anya and give up on saying anything further about the blini. I don't want Elira anywhere near her, certainly not near a hot stove or kitchen knives.

What the fuck is Elira's game plan?

I don't know, but this can't continue. She can't continue. With a glance her way, I debate what to do. I could kill her myself as soon as Anya inevitably runs to her boyfriend, or… I could just give her back to the people who really want her. All it would take is one phone call. Hell, one text.

Nikita will understand. He will think I'm weak for allowing her to get away, but when he sees the video, he'll understand that she isn't a typical woman. He'll respect my decision and find another way to punish my other choices.

"I'm gonna step outside," I say, eyeing the exit. When I slip out the back door, I pull out my phone and search for the contacts I originally got when I looked for Daniel Storm's identity.

The door slides open, and I watch Anya come through and shut it before walking to me with her hands behind her back, her head shamefully bowed.

Okay, seriously, what the fuck is going on?

"Hey." I lower my phone. "Are you okay?"

She nods while chewing on her lip, but when her face ripples with an impending sob, I widen my eyes and open my arms for her as she crashes against me. She hugs me tight, tighter than I can remember, and cries against my chest.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbles before sucking in a deep breath.

I smooth my hand over her back, at first awkwardly, but then my eyes close and I squeeze. My chest aches at the tension that's been so tightly wound between us, and although the hug is still fresh, I get the sudden dread that this will be the last time I ever feel her arms around me. It doesn't feel possible for us to ever be close again, so this small taste is almost too painful to bear.

"I'm sorry too." I run my hand down her hair and squeeze. "I know I'm not enough for you, Anya. I know you need more. I'm so sorry for the things I've said to you and the things I have and haven't done. I swear to you, I'm trying."

She pulls away and shakes her head, wiping fresh tears from her eyes. "No, that's bullshit. You're more than enough. I just treat you like shit because…"

She looks off like she's ashamed, and again, I search for words to make her pain go away, finding none. I'm terrible at comforting her.

She looks up and takes a sharp breath. "Because I thought you were a bad guy. Because of your job. I thought…" She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. I said awful shit to you, and it turns out, I'm just a shitty judge of character. You were right about Tanner. He's a lowlife asshole."

I stare at her, more confused than I was when I walked into my house.

She hates me because of my job? Okay. That's fair. But why does she suddenly think she was incorrect in her assessment?

"Elira told me everything," she says, answering my unspoken question. Sort of. It actually makes me more confused.

"What is everything ?"

Her long eyelashes flutter as she hugs her stomach. "She told me about the men in Albania who took her freedom and how you agreed to marry her so she wouldn't have to go back there. She told me you saved her."

She said I…

I slowly blink while I try to wrap my head around that, but the look my sister gives me makes it difficult to question the warped reality for long. She's looking at me like I'm her savior. Like I'm suddenly worthy. Like I'm…

Like I'm her brother.

"Just so you know, I'm not angry," Anya says, holding her hands up. "I get why you didn't tell me about eloping and the green card stuff. But I hope now that I know, maybe we don't have to hide so much from each other anymore?"

She gives me a tiny, hopeful smile as she says it, tears glistening in her eyes.

Finally, I have no hesitation to speak. I nod, my throat feeling smaller. "I'd like that very much."

Again, she throws her arms around me, and I hug her back, my eyes drifting to the glass door. I spot Elira watching us by the hallway. She walks away as our eyes meet.

She is a clever, clever bitch. Telling my sister we're married, making herself a more permanent marker in my life, buttering Anya up, ensuring herself extra security. Well done, Elira. Well done.

I try to make myself angry, but it's hard when I feel like for the first time in a very long time, the war between my sister and I is at rest.

I slip my phone into my back pocket, no longer intent on making a call.

After all, what kind of husband gives his own wife up?