Page 48 of Conquer
“What’s wrong?” I follow the line of his gaze and quickly discover the source of his alarm.
A tiny figure races across the terrace—but gone is her exuberant energy from earlier. Tears spill down her cheeks, her cries audible even before Vadim lurches to the door and wrenches it open. He has her in his arms in an instant, and as I follow him out, I spot two figures hurrying from the woods in her wake.
One is a huffing Ena, his gaze alert despite the obvious exertion of having run after a seven-year-old.
By his side is a tiny blond, her expression constricted with concern. Spotting me, she sighs in exasperation. “He didn’t mean to! I tried to tell her that he onlylooksscary—”
“What’s wrong,ma chérie?” Vadim murmurs to Magda, stroking her hair. “What happened?”
She shakes her head, hiding her face in the crook of his shoulder. Frowning, he glances at Ena, who shrugs.
“I know.” With a maturity well beyond her young years, the smaller girl steps forward, her gaze focused on her friend. “Max came home,” she explains. “I tried to tell her that he onlylooks scary. Come back, and you’ll see, Mags. Promise! I bet he’ll even play tea party with us if we ask him to—”
“No! I don’t want to go away!” I barely recognize the childish whimper as belonging to Magda. She’s trembling, her chest heaving with choking, gasping sobs. “I don’t. Don’t let me,” she wails, clinging to Vadim, who looks stricken in the face of her fear. “Don’t let him take me—”
“No one is taking you anywhere,” Vadim insists. He cuts his gaze to Ena, radiating authority. “Secure the perimeter.”
The man nods and marches off. “Yes, Sir.”
Left behind is Ainsley, her bottom lip trembling, her eyes welling. Before another disaster can ensue, I step forward and gingerly link my hand in hers.
“I’ll take her home,” I say, starting off in the direction of Maxim’s property before Vadim can argue.
I glance over my shoulder to find him carrying Magda into the house, speaking to her calmly all the while.
“I’m sorry,” Ainsley whines, her nostrils flaring. “He’s not mean, honest!”
“I believe you, honey.” Though internally, I’m questioning a little girl’s interpretation of “mean” where a man as imposing as Maxim is concerned. Halfway to the house, we’re met by a panting figure who races from the underbrush.
“Thank God!” Francesca exclaims, clutching at her chest. She races to her sister’s side, bundling the girl in her arms. Despite my best efforts, Ainsley is crying soon enough, and my heart breaks for both girls for very different reasons.
“Mind if I join you?” I ask Francesca as she starts back toward her house. She looks alarmed and glances warily over her shoulder—but eventually, she nods. “Sure.”
She comforts her sister the entire trip back, and the girl sports the beginnings of a smile by the time the house looms above. A towering figure stands waiting to greet her near the edge of the terrace.
She squirms from her sister’s arms and races over, tugging insistently on the pantleg of a man most would eagerly avoid. Dressed in black from head to toe, he stands with his arms crossed, his blond hair streaming loosely behind him, his gaze on me.
“I’m sorry,” Ainsley tells him, her voice hitching. “I don’t know why she got so scared.”
But I do. Stepping forward, I force myself to meet the man’s steely gaze. “Can we talk?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Francesca stiffen, but Maxim? He eyes me for so long I nearly sway with relief when he finally nods and turns into the house. Inside, I’m once again reminded of the glaring similarities—and differences—between the two brothers.
This house has a softness to it Vadim’s lacks. Perhaps it lies in the pops of color sprinkled throughout the relatively muted color scheme—hints of red, yellow, and blue in the form of pillows or throw blankets or potted plants. Or the scattered toys that hint toward a bustling family life. Or it could just be that Maxim, as foreboding as he seems, dominating this spacious room, has settled into a relationship that may or may not have softened some of his harsher edges. At least where Ainsley is concerned. Maybe even Magdalene?
Clearing my throat, I face him.Here goes nothing.“Vadim needs you,” I blurt in a rush. “Now, more than ever. I don’t know what’s between you two.” Something tells me that Maxim’s tale of their feud may differ slightly from the one Vadim told. The details don’t matter. “He needs you. Your niece, needs you.”
He flinches as something unreadable crosses over his dark, unsettling eyes. “Niece?” He grunts as his rumbling voice echoes through the room. “You believe that?”
“I know it,” I counter swiftly. Crossing my arms, I level him with an eyebrow cocked, ignoring the fire searing through my shoulder. “Do you really want to deny that? You can look at her and see for yourself. And you can see that they both need you.”
“Is that so?” He lumbers to a far corner of the room, turning his back to me. Without the distracting intensity of facing him head-on, I’m left to inspect the rest of his bulk, adding up more clues to cement the brothers’ strange idiosyncrasies. Their panache for tailored, Italian-style suits for one. Maxim’s is black, and yet despite wearing it, there’s a primal intensity to his form that doesn’t portray quite the level of icy businessman Vadim can. This man looks less business and more…not legal. I recall a hint of a conversation I heard between Vadim and his friend Milton. I’m more convinced than ever—Maxim—much in the way Irina hinted about Vadim—doesn’t play by anyone’s rules.
Hopefully, not Irina’s.
“Someone is trying to hurt him,” I say in response to his obvious skepticism. Vadim once joked that Maxim probably thought he was Magdalene in a child-sized suit, and I’m starting to realize that statement might not have been entirely an exaggeration. “Someone is trying to hurt hisdaughter.Does that mean anything to you? Or do you enjoy having little girls run from you in terror?”
He grimaces, and I have my answer.No.
