Chapter 117: The Half-Sister

Chapter 117: The Half-Sister
Max set Valerie down in the empty bathtub. She landed with a loud thud against the cold porcelain and stared up at him, wide-eyed.
Before she could scramble out, he reached over and turned on the tap. Warm water started pouring in around her.
“Don’t you dare—” she growled, grabbing his arm.
He pressed one big hand on her shoulder, just firm enough to keep her seated while the water rose. Valerie squirmed under his grip, her short red silk nightgown quickly getting soaked. The thin fabric turned dark and clung to her body, becoming almost see-through. Her black lace panties were clearly visible underneath, the wet silk molding to the curve of her breasts and the dip of her waist.
“We had a deal! I was trying—” she complained, pushing at his chest.
“You weren’t trying hard enough,” Max said calmly, picking up the shampoo bottle.
“I was getting there! I had sauce all over me, for fuck’s sake!”
He actually smiled a little at that. “I noticed.”
Valerie grabbed his wrist as he reached for her hair, trying to stop him. He let her hold onto it for a second, then kept going anyway, working the shampoo into her hair with slow, steady fingers. She kept shoving at his arm and shoulder, splashing water everywhere, but he didn’t budge.
The warm water sloshed around her thighs and hips as she wriggled. Every time she moved, the soaked silk nightgown slid higher up her legs and stuck tighter to her skin, outlining her nipples and the shape of her body.
“You’re such an asshole,” she muttered, breathless.
Max worked the lather through her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp. “You were rubbing chocolate on your thighs like it was supposed to make me lose control. It was cute.”
“Cute?” She splashed water on his shirt. “I was being sexy!”
He chuckled. “You were being funny. And yeah… still hot.”
Valerie felt her face burn. She shoved at his shoulder again, but there wasn’t much strength behind it this time. The way his big hands felt in her hair while she sat there dripping wet in the clingy, see-through nightgown was doing things to her she didn’t want to admit.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she warned, trying to sound tough even as water ran down her chest.
He rinsed her hair gently, letting the warm water cascade over her. Valerie crossed her arms under her breasts, which only pushed them up more against the wet silk. Max’s eyes flicked down for a second before returning to her face.
She glared at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I am.”
Afterward, Valerie was now in the white bathrobe, thick cotton, warm. Max was still in his shirt and pants, both soaked through from the bathtub, and he hadn't changed or seemed particularly bothered by it. He sat behind her on the bed and worked the comb through her hair slowly.
She stared at the wall across from her.
It had been a long couple of days. She was tired in a way that had moved past the body, and the anger that had been keeping her upright for most of it had burned itself down.
"Why aren't you worried about Lindsay?" she finally spoke. "Damon has her, and you sit here, and you seem completely unbothered or not worried about it."
"Getting worried won't help her," he said.
"Really?"
He worked through a knot near the ends without pulling her hair. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to say something that sounds like you actually care that she's with him."
He was quiet for a moment. "I care."
"It doesn't show,” she said. "Damon is not a person you want to be in a room with against your will. I want you to understand that I know that firsthand. He never did anything to me directly. But I know what he's capable of. The kind of business he runs. The kind of people he uses. I spent years in that house watching him operate, and there were things I wasn't supposed to see and things I saw anyway, and I know what he is."
"I know that," Max said.
"So knowing that. Knowing what he'll do to her. How are you sitting here combing my hair?"
He set the comb down for a moment. She heard him exhale.
"Because I have people working on the problem right now," he said. "And me sitting across from a phone watching it ring won't make them move faster. So I'm here."
"And if they can't get to her in time?"
"They will."
"That's not something you can guarantee."
"No," he said. "It's not." He picked the comb back up. "But I'm not in the business of planning for failure."
She sat with that. Outside, something moved on the grounds — a guard crossing the lit section of the perimeter — and then the window showed nothing again.
"Men like Damon," she said. "Men like you are the same."
"No."
"What's the difference?"
"Damon is dangerous because he has resources and no particular limit on cruelty," he said. "He'll go as far as the situation calls for and a little further, because the extra distance is how he maintains control over people. He uses fear like a tool." He paused. "I'm dangerous for different reasons."
"Which are."
"Scale," he said. "The Cardini operates across multiple continents. That kind of organization doesn't survive unless the person running it is willing to make decisions that most people aren't capable of making. You can't run something that large and still have parts of yourself you protect from it."
She turned that over. "You're saying you don't have those parts."
"I'm saying I made peace with it a long time ago."
She turned slightly on the bed so she could look at him without fully turning around. He met her eyes briefly and went back to the comb.
"Lindsay," she said again. "Tell me about her. I mean… aside from the fact that she’s your sister and she fucked Damon… willingly, I suppose."
He was quiet long enough that she thought he might not answer.
"We weren't close," he said. "Growing up, we barely knew each other." He worked through the last damp section near her temple. "My father was—he didn't have a faithful bone in him. He had an affair while he was married to my mother. That wasn't the only one, but it was the one that gave him another child."
He set the comb down on the bed beside him.
"We didn't know much about her mother, her name, or roughly where they lived. That was about it."
"When did you meet her?"
"I was twelve, and my father brought a little girl to the house one afternoon. She was maybe six or seven. He introduced her to us and said she was my sister and that her name was Lindsay.”