Conflicted. Conflicted was the best word to describe how Will was feeling at the moment.
Max sipped her drink, downed the rest of it. Half of the bottle was gone by now, and he was pretty sure that it had been full when she pulled it out of the freezer.
She set the glass down on the table and leaned further into the couch. Within moments, she was asleep. She didn’t snore or make noise. She just slept.
Her face smoothed out. Her eyebrows didn’t furrow like they did when she was angry, and they didn’t pull back from each other like they did when she cried. Her mouth didn’t frown or snarl. She looked peaceful for the first time since he’d met her.
In that moment more than any, she appealed to him.
Maybe she wasn’t a completely psychopathic fighter. Maybe what she said was true. When she fought, she was Maverick. When she was with people she cared for and trusted, she was Max.
She adapted to her environment to survive. He admired that.
Hair fell out of her braid and hung by her face. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and brushed it away.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he answered it absently.
“Hello?” he murmured.
“Hey, Boss. Did Max make it up to the hotel room okay?” one of the security guys’ voices filled the line.
“Yeah, she’s here. Why?” he asked.
“We trailed her from the event, like you said to. She pulled over on the side of the road twice.”
Will’s heart sped up.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Looked to us like she was getting sick. She fell to her knees in the grass and threw up a few times, both times. Took her about ten minutes each time until she could get back in the car,” he said.
Understanding rang through Will’s head. That’s why he’d gotten there before she had, even though she had left ten minutes before he had.
“Okay. Thank you,” he said.
“No prob, boss-man.”
She’d thrown up. She was so sick about what she did that she stopped by the side of the road and threw up.
Her breathing was deep and steady, and her head rolled to the side. She was out cold; drunk like never before.
Will stood and carefully removed Max’s feet from the coffee table.
The bottle of rum was situated between her jean-clad legs, and her hands lay in her lap, cradling her glass.
He removed the bottle and glass and gently took Max’s hands.
When he saw them he winced.
Her knuckles bled; wept blood from what looked to be open sores. As if her punches had been so forceful that her skin had simply torn clean.
He rubbed the skin of her hand lightly, then tore his eyes away.
He gripped her two arms, and slid one arm behind her back and the other under her legs. He lifted her easily. Even with her height and muscle, he was stronger.
For some reason, that pleased him.
He laid her down on the bed in the bedroom and stepped back.
She looked horribly uncomfortable in her jeans, even with her tank top.
He shook his head as he threw a light blanket over her.
