Chapter 153
Maksim
I sit on the couch, staring at the tiny monkey currently attempting to scale me like I'm some kind of tree.
Seriously.
What did I do to deserve this?
Her little fingers grasp at my sweats, her face scrunched in fierce concentration. She hauls herself up my shin, slips, and then scrambles again, her chubby legs kicking with determination. Dark pigtails bob with every effort.
I smirk despite myself. She's ridiculous.
Then—predictably—she loses her grip and tumbles onto the carpet. Not hurt, of course, but sprawled there like a stunned puppy.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. I cough to cover it, look away quickly, but it's too late.
"Sim," she chirps.
I freeze.
"No." I mutter, eyes still fixed firmly on the wall.
"Simmmmm." Louder this time, insistent, her bottom lip wobbling.
I grit my teeth. Hold strong. I can do this.
"SSSSSIMMMM!"
That does it. She starts to cry, tiny fists rubbing her eyes, and suddenly my heart—traitorous, stupid thing—twists. I throw my hands up.
"Fine. Come here, little tyrant."
Leaning down, I scoop her up easily, lifting her high into the air until her squealing laughter fills the room. She kicks her legs in delight, eyes shining.
"Happy now?" I ask, trying for stern but failing miserably.
She giggles. Loud, uninhibited, pure.
And damn it all… I'm smiling too.
I exhale, bringing her closer to my chest. I knew it. Crocodile tears. Manipulative little shit.
"You really shouldn't give in to her so often—you're undermining Master Ivan's and my efforts."
The voice slashes through the air like a whip. My shoulders tense instinctively.
Margaret.
The live-in caretaker. Nanny. Governess. General tyrant. Honestly, I don't know what her official job description is. All I know is she runs this house like a fortress, and her salary could fund a small country.
I grumble something under my breath that even I can't hear.
Not because I'm scared. Definitely not. Maybe a little.
It's only Nia who stiffens in my arms, not me. Absolutely not because Margaret once oversaw my physical therapy after the hospital and enforced a "routine" so brutal I still wake up sweating. No, not me.
A couple of brisk steps later, Asura Margaret herself looms in front of me. Her hair is pinned into that terrifying bun, her scowl etched as deep as a battle scar, hands on hips like a general surveying the battlefield.
"Nia."
That one word. Command. Sentence. Final judgment.
The tiny traitor in my arms immediately clutches me tighter, pressing her face into my neck like she knows what's coming. I get it, kid. I really do.
"It's time," Margaret says firmly, her shadow blotting out the light.
Nia shakes her head, holding on tighter, her little fists digging into the fabric of my shirt. I actually wince on her behalf. The poor thing doesn't know resistance is futile.
With all the regret of a man sending another to the gallows, I gently peel her arms from my neck and hand her over. My soul weeps as I watch Margaret scoop her up like a sack of flour.
"Be strong, kid," I murmur under my breath.
Nia's betrayed wail echoes down the hall as Margaret marches her away, unbothered, unstoppable.
*
The hot water hits my back and I sit on the plastic stool. Showering from a seated position is the least glamorous part of losing a leg. I can stand on one leg if I have to—physically it's fine—but the fuss, the balancing, the risk of slipping… the stool is easier.
Hunched on the damned stool, glaring at the stump where my leg used to be.
Empty. Fleshy. Wrong. The prosthetic waits abandoned in my room, sleek, expensive, brilliant engineering, the best money could buy; they spent thousands on it. Still, metal against tender skin never stops being irritating.
Warm hands settle on my shoulders. I don't need to look. Only one person invades my showers like she owns them.
Margaret.
"Am I disturbing your daily brooding?" Margaret's voice. Teasing.
I snort. "I'm not brooding."
"Uh-huh." She runs her fingers through my hair and the motion knocks the edge off whatever pretended stoicism I was holding.
The terrifying governess, the strict caretaker—reduced in these moments to soft hands and quiet touches.
"The bosses gave me a month off," she says suddenly.
I grunt. "Okay."
"We're getting married. Then honeymoon."
???
There's a pause where the hot water ticks the silence into pieces.
"Okay," I say at last.
It might be too soon. We haven't been official long enough to make such a commitment. But then again… Margaret is the kind of woman who doesn't wait for anyone's permission. If she thinks it's right, she'll make it right.
Guess I'll be a married man next month.
She helps me out of the shower—something she's done since the hospital days, when I couldn't even balance long enough to wash myself. Back then, I thought it was humiliating. Now it's routine. She calls me her "oversizedteddybear." I pretend to hate it, but some part of me likes it.
*
It's not a bad life.
That's the thought that sits heavy in my chest as I look at her riding me with wild abandon, hair loose, eyes blazing like she owns the world.
I get taken care of in every way that matters.
Sex. Food. Mind. Soul.
And maybe that's why I don't regret losing my leg. Because if I hadn't, I wouldn't be here.
There wouldn't be Nia.
There wouldn't be Margaret.
There wouldn't be this bed, this moment, this beautiful woman taking me apart piece by piece.
I wouldn't trade it for the world.