And yet, as a testament to the vastness of both properties, Maxim’s is still a good twenty or thirty minutes’ walk at the brisk pace of an eager seven-year-old. If Maxim is anything like Vadim in terms of security, I half-expect a gruff, gun-toting equivalent of Ena to come bursting from the shadows the second we breach the boundary of his land. Instead, we emerge from the woods relatively unscathed—though I sense eyes on the back of my neck with every step we take toward the modest, cozy-looking mansion on the hill.
Maxim’s property is laid out much in the same way as Vadim’s. There is a stable on the far edge, set amongst a series of sprawling, fenced-in fields. Beyond that is a rocky shore with its own private dock. The house even has a pool, barely visible from this angle.
Inhaling deeply, I take Magda around the perimeter of the property, heading toward the house proper. The second we step onto a paved stone path snaking to the front door, it opens, and a man in a suit steps out. He’s dapper, with graying hair and gentle though guarded eyes. I recognize him instantly as the man who drove me home after Vadim made a spectacle of me at Maxim’s dinner party.
Small world.
“May I help you?” he asks, smiling warmly. The politeness catches me off guard, and some of my unease dissipates a fraction.
But before I can open my mouth, Magda steps forward. “I want to play,” she says. “Is Ainsley here, sir?”
I gape at her even as my heart melts at her sweet tone. Like father like daughter. She knows when to turn on the charm. It doesn’t hurt that even in her more casual outfit, she still looks like a little princess with her braids adorned with green ribbon and Biphany tucked under her arm—I now suspect that leaving the less innocent-looking It at home was a calculated choice.
One that turns out to be devastatingly effective. The man blinks at the overload of girlish energy. But in a testament to his professionalism, he doesn’t break completely.
“I’m not sure if Ms. Ainsley will be able to play today,” he says carefully, cutting his gaze to me. “But I will ask.”
He disappears inside the house, and not even a second later, the door flies open, and a tiny figure skips out.
“You came!” Ainsley bounds down the path, sporting a pink equivalent to Magda’s casual sweater and jeans. Her loose hair flows over her shoulders as she bounds toward us. “Can we go play, Frankie? Huh?”
She directs the question toward the slender figure who appears in the doorway behind her. Cautiously, the woman’s dark eyes meet mine, and I sigh in response.
“Can we talk?” I ask her as the girls ignore us, already skipping off together, holding hands. Their innocent joy makes it painfully apparent just how foolish this is—the adults being nervous at the prospect of a budding friendship merely because of two men who hate each other. It’s laughable in theory. But not so trivial once I recall how the brothers react when in the same vicinity.
I feel like a general, going behind her leader’s back to forge a truce behind enemy lines. Yes, on the one hand, every small ounce of peace is a victory within itself. On the other hand, treason is punishable by death, and even Ena didn’t care to sugar coat things.
Mr. Vadim kill you.
But the time for any doubt has sadly passed. Tentatively stepping forward, Francesca nods, and I suspect she’s of the same mind. In unison, we watch the girls giggle, muttering conspiratorially, and any lingering misgivings I may have held vanish.
“Come on, Ainsley,” Francesca calls, her expression strained. “Let’s go into the back yard.”
It is a strange thing to sip lemonade behind enemy lines for the sake of a playdate. I add the experience to the growing list of “things I thought I’d never do during my journey to sexual exploration.”
Stoically, Francesca sits beside me on a wooden lounger while we both watch the girls play on a section of grass across from a spacious pool. Here, the similarities between Maxim and Vadim’s properties end. Maxim’s is lived in, for one—a landscape of toys and skateboards bustling with activity. I catch several other faces peering out from the windows at times.
“I know this puts you in an awkward spot,” I say to break the ice as Magda and Ainsley chatter away. “But when you have a seven-year-old stuck in the house for a week, it gets hard to deny her request for human interaction. And she’s so darn cute.” I crack a smile.
And so does my opponent. She really is beautiful in an understated way, with curling dark hair and brown eyes. Haunted eyes. A black dress with short sleeves reveals the bare skin of her arms—a sight I am desperately preventing myself from staring at.
They’re covered in scars. Vicious, healed scars.
“You live with Dima?” she asks, her tone surprisingly neutral, given the nature of this war.
“Dima?” It takes me a second to remember Vadim’s nickname. “I, um… Yes. For now. It’s complicated.”
Her lips form a wry frown. I sense her mulling over her next words carefully before she finally says, “He’s dangerous.”
I swallow at her tone. My gaze cuts to Ainsley, who seems merrily undisturbed, though, according to Maxim, Vadim kidnapped her. It’s a horrible act for sure, and while I don’t claim to know Vadim fully just yet—I do know him enough to understand why he might have done it. To test himself. To convince himself that he could interact with Magda. He all but told me, and I don’t doubt that looking back at all he’s done since.
“He’s…complicated,” I say in answer to Francesca’s statement. “I won’t pretend like he’s not.”
And hell, after today I may not have to—he’ll kick me out. I try
