Tick.
Tock.
Neither of them moved.
Catherine’s fingers stayed curled around her purse strap, knuckles white, pulse loud enough she was certain he could hear it.
Maximilian remained exactly where he was... hands open, posture loose, expression unreadable in that infuriatingly composed way of his. The kind of calm that didn’t soothe. The kind that dared you to lose control first.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned... Not toward her.
Away.
The tension didn’t vanish. It only shifted, like a bowstring eased a fraction but never unnotched.
"I’m not going to hurt you, Catherine," he said quietly, that faint, unreadable smile lingering. "You look like you might actually shoot ."
"Do I?" she replied flatly.
A beat.
He nodded, conceding as if she’d comnted on the weather. As if this wasn’t a standoff balanced on a hairline crack.
Tick.
Tock.
From the bedroom ca a soft sound; the baby stirred, then settled on her own. A tiny sigh. Dostic. Intimate. It sliced through the mont like silk torn cleanly in two by a sharp sword.
Catherine hated that her chest loosened by half an inch.
Maximilian glanced toward the door, then back to her. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. Careful. As though she were sothing volatile.
"We’ll find a way out of this," he said. "Let’s not even think about hurting each other."
Another pause as if he was realigning his emotions.
Then, impossibly, almost cruelly, he tilted his head, that familiar smile touching his mouth.
"Do you need a change of clothes? That dress looks uncomfortable to sleep in."
He stepped closer.
Catherine’s grip tightened reflexively, though she didn’t rember when she’d eased her hold on the gun. Her back hit the wall before she realized she’d retreated. Her heart started to pound.
Maximilian, however, didn’t rush her. Didn’t crowd her. He simply... arrived.
His fingers brushed the handle of her purse. He did not grab it. It was as if he were asking her a question. His knuckle gently grazed her finger.
She let go. Her breath caught, silently and traitorously.
He lood close enough that his chin nearly brushed her forehead, his warmth spilling over her skin, when she looked up. She pressed her palm to his chest, instinctively, defensively...and he caught her hand.
Heat surged in her lower belly. Not pain. Sothing... different. The dangerous kind.
"Shall I ready the bath?" he murmured. "You’ll feel better."
The dim light caught in his eyes, that unsettling violet flaring like a spell. Catherine swallowed, warmth curling low in her belly as her thoughts unraveled.
For one breath... just one sweet breath... she forgot how to fight.
Plop.
The sound was small. Ridiculous.
It snapped her back to herself like a slap.
Catherine winced and looked down. Her purse lay on the floor between them, mouth slightly open as if it was accusing her. Exposing her stupidity. Rationality surged back with venomous force. Whatever that heat was curling in her chest, it was dangerous. Far more dangerous than fear.
She shoved him back. Hard.
Her heart slamd against her ribs, too fast, too loud. She didn’t know whether it was panic... or sothing else entirely. Either way, she needed distance. Imdiately.
"Do you have ice?" she asked, already walking away picking her purse. "I need lots of ice."
The kitchen lights were too bright. Too normal. Without hesitation, she opened cabinets like she owned the place and found a box. Of course, he had organized storage. Of course.
Maximilian, still by the freezer, watched her movents with a frown sharpening his features. Sothing was off.
"What are you looking for?" he asked.
"Do you have a cleaver?" she replied, barely glancing at him as her eyes flicked to the knife rack.
Ice and cleaver. The dots connected instantly for Maximilian, and his jaw tightened. "Do you have to go this far?"
He grabbed her arm, yanking her around, his pull not gentle, not cruel... just angry. Real anger. Controlled, but sharp anger.
"This is stupid," he snapped. "You’re willing to cut your wrist off just to get the bracelet off?"
"Well, Vaseline is not working, is it?" she scoffed. "And you don’t have a hamr. dicine is advanced. They’ll fix my hand back. Now, let go!"
She wrenched free, fury lending her strength. She scooped ice cubes into the box, hands steady despite the chaos in her chest.
"I’d rather hurt myself," Catherine said coldly, "than stay shackled to you."
That was the mont sothing in Maximilian broke.
He watched her walk to the sink, cleaver gleaming in her hand, movents calm, too calm, and for the first ti, real panic seized him. Not fear of the curse. Not afraid for himself.
Fear that she would actually do it.
The pain hit him again, brutal and paralyzing. It felt like his heart was being crushed in a vice, twisted until his knees buckled. His vision blurred. He tasted iron.
So this was it.
She would rather lose her hand than remain bound to him.
The realization hurt worse than the curse ever had.
"No," he growled through clenched teeth.
Nothing could be repaired 100%. It’ll never be the sa. She should know it too.
Before she could lift the blade, he was already there.
One sharp motion that was decisive and furious... He gripped the cleaver in her hand. His hand trembled as it lingered for just a mont, eting the desperation in her eyes. Then, clenching his jaws, he ripped it from her grip and sent it skidding across the floor. tal shrieked as it struck the wooden floor, the sound echoing like a verdict. The ice cubes clattered as they fell on the floor.
The next second, his arms closed around her waist. His hold was not gentle, not really. It was panic, mixed with sothing else.
He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and set her on the countertop, crowding into her space without hesitation, without allowing distance. His hands braced on either side of her hips, surrounding her in, fearing she might rush back to that cleaver...
Catherine observed his face... panic in his eyes, lips twitching with rage... and his body close enough...
Close enough that she could feel the heat of him...too much, too near... despite the way it clearly shredded him from the inside out.
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