61. Nat

If I wasn't so out of it, I'd be asking a million questions as we drive through a set of tall metal gates, guarded by two men with very large guns. The house at the end of a long driveway lined by trees could best be described as a mansion.

Max's home is a huge red brick property with ivy growing up the walls and a red tiled roof. Everywhere I look, I can see greenery: flowers, trees, and a sweeping lawn that disappears down toward a small lake. It's lovely. Exactly what I'd pick if I could choose my dream home.

Part of me is wondering exactly how fucking wealthy Max is, but most of me is still reliving the explosion…yesterday?

God. Was it really less than 24 hours ago that James said he'd blame me if his car was stolen?

I choke up as the car glides to a stop next to a huge entrance portico. Max jumps out and opens my door. He's not said much to me on the journey here. I think he realizes I need some time to come to terms with what's happened. Although I'm not sure any amount of time will help.

Time can't undo what happened, or bring James back to life.

Before I can protest, Max scoops me up and carries me to the door, with Artem bringing up the rear, carrying my bag with my phone and notebook, plus the clothes I was wearing when the car…

Nope. I push the thought aside.

An older woman waits inside the large reception hall.

"Sir, the young lady's bedroom is ready, and I have prepared a light lunch for you both." She looks at me and smiles sympathetically.

There are fresh flowers everywhere and the whole house feels bright and airy. It's nothing like Max's apartment, where the decor is very masculine and minimalist. This place has a softer feel and gives the impression of being a family home.

Not that I know anything about his family aside from the fact he has a sister he doesn't see very often. In that sense, we're very much alike. I have my parents but we're definitely not close. They don't even know what's happened. And I won't be telling them.

"Thanks, Greta." Max carries me upstairs, treating me like an invalid who can't use her poor legs, and God help me, part of me likes the way he takes care of me.

"I thought you might prefer your own room for now, while you are recovering," he tells me when he carries me into the most gorgeous bedroom I've ever seen. It overlooks the gardens at the rear of the property, and for the first time, I get a sense of how large this place is.

There are no other houses in sight. Just formal gardens, a lake, and beyond that, forest and mountains. It's truly stunning.

"The bathroom is through that door on the left, and there's a closet too. I had Greta pick you up some clothes, but if there's anything you need, just ask her."

The way he phrases it makes anxiety flare in my chest. "Are you leaving me here?"

"No, malyshka. Not yet at least. I may have to go and do work stuff at some point, but for now, Sasha is managing things for me." He places me on the bed, being careful not to jar me. "Are you tired or can you eat something? The doctor said rest is important but you also need to eat."

I consider his question. Exhaustion hovers on the periphery of my mind but I also can't recall the last time I ate anything. Just as I think it, my stomach rumbles loudly. Max smirks.

I'd really like to take a shower but there are multiple contusions and dressings on my arms and legs and it's probably a bad idea to get them wet. Max senses my anxiety and frowns.

"Let me help clean you up," he says. "Come into the bathroom."

He takes my hand and leads me into the enormous bathroom. It's a white oasis of polished marble with hanging ferns, a soaker tub, and a luxurious walk-in shower. I let him undress me while trying to avoid looking in the mirror because the thought of seeing all my horrible scrapes and burns is nauseating.

When I'm naked, he sits me down on the edge of the tub and partially fills it with hot water. Then he grabs a clean wash cloth and proceeds to carefully wipe me down, taking care to work around the dressings.

There's nothing sexual in the way he cleans my body but I can't ignore the flicker of heat that warms my veins. It's a sharp reminder of how far I've fallen down the rabbit hole.

What kind of woman would feel aroused less than 24 hours after a car bomb killed her colleague and nearly killed her? A mentally disturbed one. At least that's the conclusion I draw.

Once I am clean, he wraps me up in a thick fluffy towel and carries me back into the bedroom. He sits me on the bed and disappears into a closet, returning with some clean underwear, a long-sleeve tee, and some loose cotton pants.

Without asking if I need help, he slips the underwear up my legs, followed by the pants, and then the tee. Not once does he look at me inappropriately, which I appreciate.

As much as my body responds to him, I need some time to process what's happened. Everything is just too raw right now. I still haven't looked at my phone. I can't deal with reading messages from colleagues, all of whom will be just as devastated as me to lose James.

He was well-liked in the office and it will not be the same without the weekly gossip sessions in the break room, where he loved to talk about his latest dates. Good and bad.

"Come, Natalya, let me feed you." Max takes my hand and I realize I've been staring into space, lost in my thoughts of James. "Then I'll give you a guided tour of the house."

Food is the last thing on my mind. My body aches and every time I move, something stings or pulls. But when Max sits me down and insists I eat some of the mushroom risotto Greta has prepared, I'm surprised to find I'm more hungry than I thought.

He smiles with satisfaction when I clear my plate.

"Good girl." My core flutters, confirming my suspicion that I have a praise kink. The empty plate is cleared away and Max takes my hand. "Come."

We leave the kitchen and follow a corridor through the house. There's a large formal dining room, a family room with glass doors that open out into the garden, Max's study, and a large living room. Downstairs, there's a gym, an additional bedroom suite, and a home cinema. We pass several locked doors but Max just tells me they are storage rooms.

I don't bother asking what he stores in them, although my mind conjures all kinds of awful things, like dead bodies and torture instruments.

Outside, there's a gorgeous pool and seating area, with a fire pit, hot tub, and kitchen area, as well as a pool house. The gardens are serene and if it wasn't for the armed guards patrolling everywhere, I could almost pretend I'm staying in a luxury hotel.

"Why are your men all armed to the teeth?" I ask eventually when I can no longer turn a blind eye to the excessive security Max has.

He hesitates, running his fingers through his hair. "I have a few business rivals, some of whom are dangerous."

I almost snort. That seems like a massive understatement. Pretty sure being a mafia boss means all your rivals are dangerous. Schooling my features, I turn to look at him.

"I didn't realize running hotels was quite so hazardous to one's health." Max doesn't miss the sarcasm in my voice. He narrows his gaze a little.

"As I mentioned, I have other business interests too." I wait for him to elaborate, be honest with me, but he says nothing more. Instead, he takes my hand and we walk through the gardens and back into the house through a side door. Just as we reach the kitchen, his phone rings. He glances at the screen and grits his teeth with frustration.

"I have to take this, malyshka."

"OK. I'm going to nap for a bit." I'm exhausted, both emotionally and physically. The fact that Max still doesn't trust me enough to tell me who he really is cuts deep. This, as well as the bomb blast and my injuries, is more than I can deal with right now.

Maybe I'll gain some clarity after I've slept for a bit.