“In what way?”
His eyes settled on mine. “When we were at the hospital, they did some scans, some bloodwork. We learned he had some cysts in his brain.”
Mouth gaping, I snapped, “Are you being serious?”
“Well, there’s no reason to lie about it now, is there?” he retorted waspishly. “Not when some of those cysts are probably decorating that fancy dress of yours.”
I blanched, feeling as if my entire body was turning pale at his callous words.
“He was dying?”
Maxim shook his head. “No. They were benign. But they were pressing onto certain areas of the brain and it was causing issues.”
My brow furrowed as I thought about how his gaze had drifted around the room as he looked for me earlier. And now I thought about it, he’d been clumsier recently. Dropping things and getting furious about it, like it was someone else’s fault...
I’d thought it was from the pain, or his meds, or maybe his just not being used to using a wheelchair, but this changed my perspective on the matter.
“With his sight?”
“That, and the way he was letting that bitch lead him around by the dick,” was all he said before he shrugged. “He earned my loyalty, but the Bratva is more than just one Pakhan. The Bratva is who we must protect.”
God, he sounded exactly how Moscow wanted their men—indoctrinated.
“Not we,you. I’m telling you, Maxim. If you ever call on me to spy, I won’t.”
A gleam of something—I had no idea what, and I had no desire to know either—appeared in his eyes. “Shame your father was so intent on tying you to that old fat fuck.”
I pulled back out of his hold, aware of what he was saying and seriously not wanting his mind to go down that route. Women in the Bratva were vessels.
Against their wills.
The last thing I needed to happen tonight was to get myself raped because Maxim thought I should be grateful to him.
“I-I’d best clean up.”
His eyes darkened, not out of arousal thankfully, but in warning. “Be fast. Dress like you’re heading for a party.”
“Who are you going to blame this on?”
“That’s for me to worry about.” His lips curved down into a grimace. “Go on. Don’t come back here, Camille. Ever.”
I grabbed his hand. “You’ll make sure Victoria gets back to me?”
“You didn’t care before when you ran away.”
“I always cared,” I snapped. “Sometimes self-preservation is the only way you can come back at all.”
He arched a brow, his disbelief evident, but I didn’t bother to defend myself.
If he thought I’d have done Victoria much good as a child bride to a Bratva money man than he could go on thinking that.
“I’ll look after Victoria,” I told him gruffly.
“And that’s where you’ll need to remember the favor I’ve done you tonight.”
It didn’t take much to figure out the path his mind had taken him down.
“You’re too old for her.”