62. Max

It's been a few days and I've tried to keep my distance, to give her a chance to heal - physically as well as emotionally - but I'm finding it difficult. She's barely said a word to me. About the bombing, how she's feeling, or anything at all.

It's as if she's shut down. Built a wall around herself to keep me and everyone out. Her friends have called but she's not talking to them either. From what Kolya tells me, they're worried about her. And yes, I am now aware he's been seeing Amanda.

No fucking clue why he thought that was a good idea, but whatever. My men are entitled to personal lives and I don't get involved unless there's a risk to the Bratva. Sasha has checked her out and found nothing, so we're not worried.

I'm just surprised, that's all. Kolya doesn't do relationships. Amanda must have a fucking magic pussy to keep him twisted into knots about her. It's almost funny watching him puzzling over the text messages she sends because he can't decide whether she's being sarcastic or serious.

The house is quiet when I walk in. Greta has left for the day. She's probably holed up in her cozy little apartment over the garage, watching her favorite soaps. The guards are outside, doing their rounds.

I've doubled up security on the perimeter. Sasha's concerned whoever tried to kill Natalya will try again. I'm inclined to agree.

Kolanski wants her gone so he doesn't have to worry about bad press, and Uriov is sick enough to like the idea of killing my woman.

I should have known being with me would put her in more danger. It's not like we've been discreet. We've been seen together multiple times, and I know Uriov has people watching me from a distance. For the same reason I have guys keeping an eye on him.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Not close enough it seems. Sasha still hasn't found a solid link between Uriov and the shit that's been going down lately. We don't even know who planted the bomb on the car that nearly killed my malyshka.

The cops are supposedly investigating, but they haven't found a damned thing, so the press has moved on.

The only people who care about this particular incident are the family and friends of Natalya's colleague, who will all be there for the funeral tomorrow.

I frown. Natalya wants to attend the funeral. The problem is, it's not safe. I'm concerned someone will try again if she shows up in a public place.

I'm an overbearing asshole, as she's told me before, but I won't stop her from going if she wants to pay her respects. I'm not that much of an asshole.

She's sitting on one of the reclining chairs next to the pool when I walk outside. Low-level lights illuminate the terrace and cast dark shadows beyond the pool. Steam rises from the heated water and there's a faint smell of chlorine lingering in the air.

It's peaceful out here. One of my favorite spots. It's also relatively private, thanks to mature shrubs and privacy screens that surround the adjacent hot tub. To the right, is a pool house, with a changing room and showers.

The property was designed with a family in mind, except my parents only had me and my sister. They might have had more kids but my mother died giving birth to me, and after she died, my father was lost to his grief for too many years.

By the time he recovered, it was too late. I was almost an adult and Vanya was in her early teens, more interested in sneaking out to see boys than making use of the pool.

I brush my fingers over Natalya's bare shoulder and she jumps before relaxing when she realizes it's me.

"Have you eaten?" I ask, and her lips quirk up in a faint smirk before she rolls her eyes. It's become a habit now. She's accused me of being obsessed about what she eats, and it's true, just not for the reasons she thinks.

I'm not trying to monitor what she eats because I think she's fat. Far from it. She's perfect the way she is, but a few pounds either side of that would make no difference whatsoever.

It isn't just her looks I'm attracted to - it's her. I love her caring nature, the way she'd step in to save her friends or anyone she cares about. I don't love the way she puts herself in danger in pursuit of the truth, but it's a part of her and I'm pragmatic enough to understand she isn't going to change.

All I can do is help her.

"Yes." She rolls her eyes again. "Greta made some pasta and salad. I think what's left is in the refrigerator. Not sure there's any chocolate fudge cake left though, sorry." I smile despite myself. This is the first time she's teased me since the bomb blast. It's a hint she's beginning to emerge from the deep fog of shock that's enveloped her in the last few days.

"Good. I'm not hungry right now. Not for food anyway."

She squeaks when I lift her and sit back down on the chair with her on my lap. It's the first time we've been intimate since I moved her in here and I'm desperate for her. Literally.

Her lips are soft against mine when I pull in close for a kiss. I'm expecting some protest, or for her to make an excuse to leave, but she leans into the kiss. I start gentle, not forcing her, but it isn't long before the sweet moans falling from her lips flick a switch.

She's spent too long in her head. It's not healthy. If I can make her feel better for a bit, it will help.

When my mouth moves to her neck, my teeth nipping her soft skin, she moans a little louder. While I'm tempted to take her inside to prevent any of my guards from seeing my malyshka naked, I decide not to. The air is warm and unless someone comes toward the pool, they won't see a thing. And if they do, they better pretend they're fucking blind.

Nobody gets to witness Natalya fall apart except for me. Her pleasure is for my eyes only.