He feared that it might be true.
That everything about Maximus King was simply a shell. That the one who was real was a man who took orders, carried out missions other men shied away from.
The one who pulled the trigger without mercy when necessary. The one who existed in a space between revenge and vigilante justice.
He had done good, but the question was, how much did he even care about it anymore?
If he were honest, he had lost that connection to Stella at some point over the years.
He no longer felt that deep, aching grief that he once had for her. No longer felt as if she was some sort of eternal love, a guiding light.
No. All had become darkness at a certain stage. Except Annick.
When he had walked Annick down the aisle today, when he had seen her in her gown, she had been light.
And he felt...reluctant to touch her. Like if he put his hands on her snow-white dress he would leave behind oily dark fingerprints. Or perhaps blood.
There was blood on his hands and he couldn’t even bring himself to feel guilty about it. And that bothered him more than anything.
At first... At first it had had a cost. Killing. At first, he had felt the weight of every life he had taken. Yes, it was no different than war. These military operations. He knew that; he understood it. Many men did such things. They fought for the safety of their country, the lives of their countrymen, and what he was doing was that. He killed dictators’ investments. Assassins. Murderers. None of them were innocent. But at a certain point, he had lost his own claim to innocence. He might be able to justify each and every thing he had done, might be able to weigh it against the lives those men would have eventually taken. But it did not make him a saint. It did not make him right.
He wondered sometimes if he was simply a man in darkness, the same as all of them. Choosing a side, and deciding it was right.
If the right evidence had been presented to him, would he have been involved in the removal of Annick’s father?
He wanted to say no. But there had come a point where he had chosen who he believed. About who was good and who was evil.
No, he never, ever would have harmed a woman or child, but even so.
He had questions about his own frailty.
And he wished to drown those questions away in alcohol tonight. Not in Annick.
There was a knock at his chamber door, and she appeared. As if he had conjured her up with the pour of the whiskey. Whiskey like he had on the plane.
Whiskey, which Annick claimed she never had.
Oh, Annick, far too innocent for him. Far too much of a soft, undeniable beauty. That was, he supposed, the trade-off of her being locked away in that abysmal room. She had not been able to touch the outside world, and it had not been able to touch her.
“What are you doing here?”
“What is this? This stupid question. Why do you think I’m here?”
“For a drink?”
“No. An insult, Maximus, that you think I’m here for anything other than my wedding night.”
“Such a traditionalist,” he said, fighting against the rising tide of lust that was taking hold. Doing away with any kind of defenses he’d put up.
He had promised her family he would care for her, and this vow he’d made to the dead felt binding. But it was heavy. For how could he be sure he would not fail her? How?
“Don’t take it as an insult.”
“I have.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
She looked at him, all narrowed eyes and indignation. “Me, I think you’re a liar.”