time-bomb destined to explode
max has found his queen—only to realize she’s a knight of a different castle meant to scatter his board.
★ᝰ max verstappen x fem!reader
★ᝰ mafia!au, lovers-to-exes!au/lovers-to-enemies!au — mentions of kidnapping, murder, drugging (via chloroform), arson, birth control tampering, babytrapping, poisoning, stealing, torture; depictions of captivity, drinking alcohol, (self-)starvation, (slightly?) possessive!max, possible miscarriage, suicide; friends(?) with benefits, profanity, sexual innuendos, etc. — dark-ish(!), angst(?)
★ᝰ paragraph format — 5.6K words
masterlist
[pic’s full credit belongs solely to its owner]
★ᝰ title from all time low’s time-bomb. tmi, but the working title for this was actually a quote from black panther (2018): “would you kill me, my love?” — iykyk. dutch word from google!
★ᝰ please read with caution! to clarify, this is just dark-ish because there’s clear line between how much ‘darkness’ i can and can’t write comfortably—and this definitely is cutting it close. if i have to give this a rating, it’ll probably be a 15+, just to be on the safe side.
★ᝰ currently not thinking of a part 2, but i can be convinced. maybe. who knows. and, oh, before i forget, guess who finally has an f1 masterlist :D
The Zandvoort wind is cold, courtesy of the North Sea right next door. Not that Max can feel a whisper of it inside a safe house currently under a lockdown protocol, but the wind has touched his skin enough times over the years that it is a ghost he remembers like a muscle memory.
"The shadow has been secured, Boss," Yuki announces from the door of his study, opting to not walk in any further than a courtesy step. "We searched her for any concealed weapons and bound her exactly as you instructed."
Max doesn’t look up from the report he’s skimming through, flipping to another page as he replies, "Did she put up a fight?"
"We lost three men trying to get her into the van," his trusted underling reports. "She also almost crushed Daniel’s windpipe with her knee when she came around and he was still tying her down."
There is a hint of humor there, buried under the brutality of the act. Had the captive been anyone else, like the local baker who has deferred protection pay for three months straight despite the daily heavy traffic in his bakery, they might’ve even chuckled at Daniel’s expense. The act would’ve been nothing more than a civilian’s futile attempt to protect themselves.
But, alas, the current resident of the safe house’s basement is not the mere socialite she claimed to be when he first slept with her seven months ago.
YN LN, the charming self-made socialite he has taken an interest in, is a deception. The truth is Seraph: a shadow operative for hire who has lived a thousand lives with different objectives.
Seraph, who deals with silent, untraceable services—usually a life or information for pay.
Seraph, who has killed men with a single sharpened fingernail coated in deadly nightshade.
Seraph, who has bankrupted a syndicate with a single bobby pin.
Seraph, who specializes in sliver openings to tear a situation apart.
Daniel is lucky she’s still coming out of a chemical haze when she woke. Otherwise, Max would’ve definitely been forced to bury a lieutenant and promote a replacement—neither of which is tolerable to him amidst the betrayal.
Max still doesn’t look up to meet Yuki’s eyes, but he finally stops trying to look preoccupied with the document in front of him. "And her apartment?"
"Checo and the others are still combing it for any clues about her current employer," the younger man replies. "They’re ready to torch it once they’re done."
"Good." He looks up, his gaze cold with unvoiced fury awaiting an outlet. "Keep her sedated until I’m ready for her."
Any ghosts of the Zandvoort wind are left behind once the elevator reaches the underground levels. There is no room for a phantom breeze here—not with the suffocating echoes of lives lost in these very floors haunting the walls.
The word comfort takes on an entirely different meaning below the foundation soil. Space may be as plentiful here as it is above, but cushions of any kind and the mere privilege to stretch are luxuries that never visit. Here, silence and solitude are much preferred by its residents to the alternative.
Yet, as it is above ground, being taken to a second location is a move that cannot guarantee a return.
"Hello, schatje," Max smirks as he looks down on YN’s current state: disheveled, disoriented, and cuffed to a bolted steel chair. "Missed me?"
She takes a second to calibrate. In a completely different circumstance, specifically under his silk sheets, YN being disheveled and disoriented is a personal checkered flag. In this particular situation, however . . . "Hardly." Her voice comes out hoarse, a familiar timbre that resonates in their morning afters. "I saw you this weekend, didn’t I?"
Max can’t help but to clench his jaw.
The familiarity of her bite is a bullet he isn’t prepared to catch. It’s one of the things he loved about her—how her sweetness comes with an edge she bares just enough times to remind him to check his ego.
She had been so perfect.
Hence why the betrayal hit him with the force of a high-speed impact.
"Right," Max acknowledges curtly. He crosses his arms across his chest, looking more like the boss that he is rather than the lover she knows. "You mean two nights before an RB shipment went missing?"
As he calculated, the mention of the missing shipment immediately clears the lingering chemically-induced fog in her brain. "What? What shipment?" Even more so when the chains snapped her hands back with a sharp echo when she tried to move them to the front of her face. "What— I don’t— I don’t understand." She tries again for good measure, the chains making the same condemning noise amidst the basement’s silence. "Max, seriously, what is this? Is this some kind of—"
"I don’t know, YN, you tell me," Max interrupts her theatrical confusion, not having the patience to see her acting through.
"What are you talking—"
"Or perhaps Seraph can." He moves one shoulder in a small shrug, "Whichever personality you want to use to come clean."
The mention of her shadow name makes YN freeze. However, like a professional operative for hire he now knows she is, the shock doesn’t last long. "Who told—"
"Please," he cuts her off for the third time, feeling no remorse for talking over her. After all, she isn’t the first person he refuses to hear out. "Don’t mistake me for one of your naive targets. It’s insulting."
Her face blanks in a blink. For a second, she just sits there, unmoving, mimicking a life-sized statue. She isn’t frozen. She’s . . . assessing.
It’s the first tell that her socialite mask has cracked—and before her next words shatter it completely. "Don’t flatter yourself, schatje." The smirk that slowly blooms in her face makes him tighten his hold on his arms. It’s the same expression she makes whenever she’s trying to rile him up and bait him into a round—except, this time, there’s a razor edge to the way her eyes twinkle. "Who told you RB is my target?"
Max forces himself to not fall for it. "You’ve been lying to me for months. What makes you think—"
This time, it’s Seraph who doesn’t let him finish. "Come on. I can’t even cross my legs?" Albeit accidentally, since she’s merely attempting to get into a more comfortable position on the steel chair, but ends up causing another ripple of echo due to the chains shackled on her. She looks back up at him, incredulous, "I’ve been to better interrogation rooms."
"Does it look like I care if you’re comfortable?"
She doesn’t flinch. If anything, she just shrugs, more nonchalant than he ever appeared to be. "I expected some sort of special treatment, is all, given that I’ve kept your bed warm."
Regret comes in the form of his lieutenants. Max is this close to throwing both of them out of the windows, the lockdown protocol be damned. Perhaps he should’ve let YN—Seraph—have a go at them and bestow matching black-eyes; maybe then he would’ve known a sliver of peace.
"No, but seriously," Daniel restarts, reining in his laughter for another round of teasing Max can detect from a kilometer away. "Do you want to share with the class why you came back from the basement disheveled?"
"Not just disheveled," Checo interjects, his eyes also shining with mischievous amusement. "It’s walk-of-shame, no-comb, forgot-how-buttons-work disheveled."
"Right, right." Daniel doesn’t just take the bait to tease him further; he swallows it whole with a chuckle. He raises his glass of whiskey in Checo’s direction for an acknowledgment toast. "Those chains were definitely used for constraints, alright."
Max doesn’t look down when he undoes the top buttons of his long-sleeve button down with one hand. He doesn’t even bother to check if he really did his buttons wrong. "Get your minds out of the gutter," he growls. "She denied being involved with the missing shipment."
That—much to his silent relief—is enough for his lieutenants to pivot to the real matter at hand. The mischievous glints in their eyes vanish in an instant.
"She denied it?" Checo halts the hand that’s halfway through bringing his glass to his mouth for a drink, suspending the action in the air. "That’d be the first, wouldn’t it? Seraph is known to claim her handiworks when asked."
Daniel takes a second longer to articulate his reaction. "Do you believe her?" It comes out rather thoughtful, a rare feature for his first lieutenant who leans into the humorous disposition as a deliberate tactic. "I mean, the intel we have on Seraph doesn’t necessarily specify if she takes credit immediately or eventually."
"No," Max answers before the I don’t know echoes in his skull. The "special treatment" she spoke of is really not doing her any favors. "It’s her signature work. We can’t give her the benefit of the doubt."
He takes a sip of his whiskey, letting the alcohol burn in his throat. He barely feels it, but it’s a welcomed distraction from his racing thoughts.
He doesn’t know if he wants her to be right, or if he wants to be.
Max catches his lieutenants share a quick look. He opts not to question it. Both Daniel and Checo are aware of his . . . relationship . . . with YN, in a deeper sense than she has ever been allowed to know. He feels the weight of their concern about the complication this current situation has created for his personal plans in the air, even with their gazes away from him.
He doesn’t validate their unvoiced concern. It is simply too much to unpack at the moment—and time is a luxury they don’t necessarily have right now.
"What do you want us to do now, then, Boss?"
Regret has been long forgotten by the time his lieutenants even thought of vacating his study and calling it a night. Their glasses have been refilled and emptied at least twice during their tactical meeting, unintentionally serving as their clocks in the clock-less room.
While Daniel doesn’t linger after a "catch you later," Checo turns back before he can completely exit the threshold. "It might be irrelevant," his second lieutenant starts, "but we found an opened pregnancy test when we searched Seraph’s apartment."
Max must admit, when Checo started that sentence, he didn’t know how it’d end. But he certainly didn’t expect that. He unconsciously grips the arms of his chair tight. "What did it say? The test?"
"It wasn’t used yet; but based on how it was by the sink, I’d say it was supposed to be next on her agenda." Checo’s voice was even and nonchalant, as if he’s merely giving a trivial piece of data. Even if they both know it’s far from that. "Figured you could use that information the next time you’re down there."
Information is everything in the world they live in. For better or worse, every piece of intel that reaches the RB syndicate’s ears is used for their benefit. And this one . . .
"I’ll keep that in mind."
This one is no different.
Even if the pregnancy test would’ve read two lines had she had the chance to take it. Especially then.
Because he had guaranteed—after the first time they slept together seven months ago—that it eventually will.
The Zandvoort wind that flows into the study is an artificial imitation. The coldness doesn’t have a specific bite, nor does it smell salty like the North Sea. It’s too sterile, too chemically clean.
Yet, Max still has to settle for the centralized air conditioning rather than the natural sea wind.
It has been three days since Seraph was taken from her current alter ego’s residence. Three days since he went down to the basement and attempted to interrogate her. Three days since Checo and his men torched YN LN’s apartment.
Yet, they still have nothing concrete to tie Seraph to the missing shipment. Nor on the current whereabouts of the container in question.
Two strong knocks shatter the silence that fills the study.
Max is not in a good mood when he commands for the knocker’s entrance, already feeling the incoming headache before the progress report even reaches his ears.
"She’s still not eating, Boss," Yuki reports from the door without any prompt. He doesn’t need to wait for one, the same way he doesn’t need to speak in specifics. He’s been put in charge of YN’s— Seraph’s stay in the basement and, as it stands, she’s currently the only one there.
Max’s left hand immediately moves to massage the bridge of his nose. The syndicate’s reputation is currently under threat, and their—presently only—lead is being a picky eater. The sheer audacity.
Had she been any other prisoner, RB would’ve either just forced her to eat so she doesn’t die before they get the intel out of her or let her starve herself to death once she’s no longer useful. (Not that starvation is the only way to die in RB’s confinement. It’s just the least brutal of the selection.)
But Seraph . . .
She’s not just a temporary resident of their basement. She will be the mother of his heir—who potentially is already forming in her womb.
For all Max knows, she might be refusing to eat because his child is rejecting the food.
He leans onto the backrest of his chair, his arms crossed on his chest and his eyes calculating. "Has she thrown up? In the mornings?"
"No, sir," Yuki replies. "She just doesn’t touch the food."
That doesn’t give him much to go on. There are multiple reasons why kidnapped people—especially highly-trained professionals like Seraph—refuse to eat what their captors feed them. One of those being the small, but not unlikely, chance of the food being poisoned.
As if he’ll do that to her—to them—over a missing shipment container. Even if it has the spare parts of their competitive car.
"It is likely that Seraph is conserving her energy," Yuki adds as an afterthought. "Her activity levels have dropped significantly since the first day."
Max tightens his arms across his chest. He doesn’t like how probable Yuki’s speculation is, given who she turned out to be.
Leniency is not in the RB syndicate’s vocabulary. As it stands, all their evidence points to her as the thief—the person responsible for why their container got stolen, that is—and RB is not one to let a slight like that slide.
Yet, at the same time, she’s also carrying the next head of the syndicate. Possibly.
He eventually relaxes his arms to lean forward and place his forearms on his desk. "Hook her to an IV. We can’t have her dying without a location."
The Zandvoort wind doesn’t reach underground. It’s simply too deep within the earth. So deep, in fact, that every wall in the basement is cold to be next to—let alone to touch.
Of course, there’s also the paranormal aspect of the same coldness. There are no bodies buried in the lot where the safe house stands, but there have definitely been lives lost within the vicinity of its fence.
That is not to say that the phantom chill is the only reason for the eeriness of the space.
Not that a complete list of all the things responsible for chill crawling down the visitors’ spines—past and present—matters at the moment.
Especially with Seraph back in the interrogation box: back on the steel chair and the heavy chains holding her down.
She looks different than she did three days ago.
Three days ago, she was disheveled from the kidnapping—her hair tousled, her clothes wrinkled, and her mind still slightly drowsy from the fast-acting chloroform used to subdue her. She had open cuts on various parts of her body from the strong fight she put up against his men as well.
Now, three days later, she simultaneously looks both worse and better. Her hair is still tousled and her clothes are still wrinkled. There is now dust on her, too, from the holding cell she has been living in for the past few days, but her cuts from the kidnapping have been covered in bandages. (RB can’t have her dying of infection before she yields the information. Nothing more.) And, as ordered, she’s tethered to an IV line on one arm—though the saline drip has done little to fix her chapped lips and thinner build.
"I don’t know if it was clear the other day," she rasps as soon as he steps into the interrogation room with her, her voice hoarse from the lack of swallowed liquid, "but our unofficial relationship has ended. It was a mutual decision, from what I gathered."
Max approaches her with a scoff, "I see you’ve gotten delirious from hunger."
The sharpness of her eyes doesn’t waver. "Not delirious, schatje." Even with starvation clawing at her, the fire that he had fallen for doesn’t dim. If anything, it burns brighter with her nonchalant shrug. "You're furious because you think I crossed you. I'm furious because your intelligence network is apparently incompetent. So, yes, I'd say the breakup is mutual."
It takes a conscious effort for him not to clench his jaw at her words. Like hell. "Everything my men are finding about that shipment container leads back to you, Seraph."
At the corner of his eye, he watches the saline drip from the IV bag into her vein.
"Is Daniel feeling better?" YN inquires, seemingly ignoring whatever he just said on purpose. "Can he or Checo be my interrogator instead? At least I like them to an extent."
"You’re not in any position to request anything, Seraph," Max responds like steel, not even giving her appeal a second to settle in the air. "You only get me."
She tsks. "This is a new form of torture, I see." She moves to cross her arms, seemingly forgetting the chains attached to her wrists—which quickly remind her of their presence when they tug her arms back with a crisp echo. "Being stuck in the same room as an ex. Lucky me."
A dry chuckle almost escapes him. "If you have energy to mock me, you have energy to tell me where my container is."
"Except I don’t know where it is," she fires back. "Full offense, but if I’m going to steal a syndicate container, I’m going for Merc’s. Everyone knows they’re better these days."
Max is directly in front of her in an instant, his forehead pressed against hers to give her no choice but to look into his eyes. "Say that again."
Up close, the physical toll of her three-day captivity is undeniable. Gone are the healthy tint of her skin and the perfect softness of her socialite persona. They’ve been replaced by a concerning pallor and the beginnings of a gaunt frame.
He involuntarily clenches his jaw at the sight, completely aware that doing so will only be interpreted as a reaction to her provocation.
"Say it," he orders with a growl from the back of his throat.
Seraph doesn’t obey. Even in a chained, weakened state, there’s no fear in her eyes. She stays silent, observing the little she sees of him due to their extreme proximity. Eventually, on her own terms, she finds her voice again. "I’d go for the most competitive car on the grid rather than settle for the fourth best."
Max’s hand moves to shoot up and wrap around her throat. But, by sheer will, it raises to hold onto her waist instead, his thumb digging into the part of her that has occupied his mind for three straight days.
"You think you’re funny, schatje?"
"I think you’re funny, schatje," she counters with a barely concealed smirk. "So convinced that it’s me, but I haven’t seen any . . . dedication . . . in getting what you want from me."
His eyes harden. Worse, he knows he can’t prove her wrong. Not with what she’s potentially carrying for him. "Yeah? You think so?" He steps back just enough to break the suffocating proximity. "Why don’t you eat the food Yuki brings you and find out?"
The chuckle that escapes her is weak, but it only heightens the tension in the air. "I don’t fancy captor’s culinary specials."
He scoffs, "You think I’d poison you?"
"I think you’re a syndicate lead who has been stolen from."
Max crosses his arms across his chest, his muscles flexing under his folded long sleeves. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t give you a quick death."
"Slow-acting poison exists," Seraph reminds him. "I should know." She leans back on the chair, relaxed as she can be with chains on all her limbs, as if it’s just a simple afternoon chat. "It can be effective in getting compliance—or so I’ve heard. It hasn’t worked on me yet."
Her nonchalant shrug infuriates him. He has no doubt that her boast is not a bluff. Seraph, after all, has a well-known reputation amongst the European syndicates. A shadow whose tolerance is as incomprehensible as the limit of her skillset. A shadow who’s perfect for every job, but whose rates keep her boxed in riskier missions.
But that’s then—before she has his heir sharing her nutrition. Potentially.
"Should I be impressed?" He utters the sarcasm with as much venom as he can muster, "Give you a reward for being a skilled operative?"
"A reward," she repeats, her voice suddenly huskier than it had been a second ago. He watches her swallow almost involuntarily, her gaze drifting towards his biceps. "I can think of one."
Max can almost believe YN LN the socialite now sits before him, rather than Seraph the shadow. She sounds—and looks—exactly like she did back then, right when her blood would suddenly flare with lust.
Or so he had believed.
He doesn’t retreat. If anything, he decreases the distance once more. He doesn’t put his hand back on her waist or press his forehead to hers, but he doesn’t need to. He smirks, "You think that siren act will still work on me, schatje?"
Seraph’s expression only intensifies. She stays silent, but her dilated eyes drop to his button-down and linger intentionally at his belt line.
"Does it not?"
Dread comes in parts.
The first was twenty-one hours ago, down at the safe house’s basement, when he leaned into the sexual tension Seraph created, leveraged their raw history, and continued the interrogation in that unconventional atmosphere. Not only was the tactic unsuccessful in extracting the location, but it also planted a seed of doubt. Worse, it revealed a subtle shift in her that even a master operative couldn’t fake.
She couldn’t handle him being too close without her breath catching between words, her pulse visibly hammering against her throat, her skin radiating a sudden, familiar heat. It was not performative, different from the way he now categorizes her attraction to him during their past relationship. It was worse. Much worse. It was too raw, too uncontrolled, too real.
A blood test for her HCG levels was almost unnecessary.
It was as if something of his inside her—her body, her soul, the life taking root—was aching to be connected back to him.
The second began five minutes ago, inside his study, when his first lieutenant sat across from him to report the latest development in his and his men’s task to collect stronger evidence to indict Seraph once and for all. Max knew, regardless of how the conversation progressed, he wouldn’t like what follows.
But, as it turns out, there are still some things beyond his comprehension until it’s right in front of him.
"The more we look at it, the less it makes sense," Daniel continues after giving him a moment to process. "At best, Seraph did steal the container and plant those inconsistencies on purpose. Based on what we know of her repertoire, I wouldn’t put it past her—she’s more than capable of making a master job look sloppy."
His lieutenant shifts in his seat to change his posture. "At worst, however . . . we’re looking at the real culprit still at large."
For the life of him, Max can’t decide if he agrees with what’s ‘best’ and what’s ‘worst.’ Especially when half of him has a compelling reason to believe otherwise.
Her being the culprit means victory for the syndicate—their preventative guilty until proven innocent has saved time on another chase yet again. He can sentence her with whatever punishment he sees fit, including keeping her and their child by his side, breakup be damned.
But that also means he has no reason to trust her ever again. She’ll be nothing more than a prisoner draped in silk. She won’t be the partner—the queen—he envisioned when he started orchestrating his guarantee.
On the other hand, her not being the culprit means he doesn’t need to worry about anyone from the syndicate board being in the way. With no crime committed against RB, it’s just a matter of him getting back into her good graces.
It won’t be ideal for the syndicate to have spent four days (and counting) on a false trail, but they can certainly recover from that setback. Especially with the talent she can bring them—and the heir in her womb. It’ll only be a matter of time before they have the real thief in their chains, with or without the container back.
"Keep digging," Max eventually orders. "She’s mine until then."
Dread completes itself just after sunset.
Max is barely halfway through his first glass of whiskey—neck-deep in discussing his plans for Seraph with his trusted lieutenants—when the safe house’s emergency alarm system screeches to life.
Given the active lockdown protocol, the blaring siren is far more deafening than the last time it bounced off the walls. With no open windows or gaps to escape from, the sound remains tightly contained inside the building, uncaring for the inhabitants’ eardrums.
"What the—" Checo doesn’t even bother to finish his curse, instinctively reaching for the radio clipped on his side.
Max, whose own radio sits on his desk ten steps away, snatches Checo’s before his second lieutenant can even key the microphone. "Talk to me."
It’s the longest three seconds of their lives.
"Boss," Yuki’s voice crackles through the speaker, sounding slightly winded. "Seraph’s out."
All three of them are out of their seats in an instant.
Daniel keys his own radio, his other hand unconsciously moving up to where Seraph almost crushed his windpipe four days ago. "What? How?"
"One of my men saw a pool of blood under her and called the doctor down," his underling—who is practically his third lieutenant-in-training—replies. "GP told us to uncuff her all the way and she took the opportunity."
A sliver opening.
Max tosses Checo his radio back, launching for his own before bolting towards his study’s door. He doesn’t look back, trusting that they’ll be hot on his heels.
Checo keys his radio as they run to join the chase for their escaped prisoner. "You got fooled by some blood from her IV site?"
"No! Not from there!" Yuki defends amidst the sound of his shoes hitting the concrete as he runs. "It was thick blood! All over her lap and dripping!" He adds between controlled breaths and an offended huff. "Seriously, have you seen anyone fake being deadly pale? Even GP bought it!"
Max immediately halts in his tracks, his lieutenants almost running into him if not for their quick reflexes. Neither of them ask why.
After all, that had been the topic of their conversation before the alarm went off.
"Max— The baby—"
He doesn’t hear anything over the sudden, violent thundering of his heart.
Is she losing—
"Listen very carefully," Max orders into his radio’s microphone, his low voice vibrating through every device on the frequency. "Secure her, but do not fucking hurt her unless you want to die."
The Zandvoort wind is the coldest at night, even more so kilometers off the nearest North Sea shore. It is no longer a ghost remembered like a muscle memory, but a force of nature demanding not to be ignored.
True to Seraph’s elite reputation, the severe blood loss doesn’t deter her from her mission to escape. Somehow, even when pale and unsteady on her feet, the active lockdown protocol is a mere illusion.
She hasn’t added to her body count on her way out, but she has certainly left a trail of injuries behind.
Max’s order against harming her has undoubtedly tied his men’s hands. There is only so much they can do to try and re-contain an operative driven beyond reason.
She slips past them and out of the safe house’s perimeter in record time. Although they stayed on her without fail, the chase continues over water.
And only halts in stalemate when Seraph’s stolen yacht sputters to a dead stop, trapped in the center of an RB-owned fleet.
Max’s eyes snap straight towards the blood that follows her when she steps back onto the upper deck. He has seen it up close, since she had left quite a trail in the safe house during her escape, but seeing how the crimson has vividly stained her trousers, even at a distance . . .
GP had made the right call.
Looking at her now, the infirmary is really the only place she should be—if not his own bed.
"YN!" He shouts onto the howl of the wind. "Stay there! We’re getting you help!"
He can hardly hear her response over the aggressive wind and the crashing waves. "You’re telling me to wait?" Her attitude is still there, but it doesn’t land the same with the rawness it obtained since the last time he saw her yesterday. "I have. For four days. And look where it got me."
She doesn’t raise her voice more than necessary, but she might as well have on top of her lungs with how she has to grip the nearest railing to stay upright. Still, she flashes him a smirk—pained, but a smirk nonetheless. "There’s only so much boredom I can take."
It’s a sight to behold. With the cold wind blowing hair across her face, the floodlights pinning her to the deck, and her playful expression, it reminds him of the first time they met—under Monaco night lights, away from the chaos of the inter-syndicate gala, draped in navy blue silk. It was the night he first tasted her fire, and decided to never let go.
But as the wind wracks her frame with involuntary shivers, the lights only highlight how dangerously thin she has become. She looks more frail than ever. It doesn’t help that her knuckles have turned white from the death grip she has on the railing.
She doesn’t have much energy left—that he knows for certain—and, yet, she still positions herself for a fight she can’t possibly win.
She’s a shadow operative through and through.
"Don’t move," Max commands over the wind. He steps right up to the edge of his vessel’s bow, uncaring for the dark water churning between the hulls, putting himself as close as possible to her yacht. "You’re bleeding out."
YN stands her ground, her posture impeccable despite her shallow breaths. "A little— A little blood never killed anyone, schatje."
"‘A little blood’?" His voice cracks, breaking his boss persona along with it. "You’re bleeding for two!"
The wind seems to freeze, swallowed by the silence that has engulfed them in an instant.
For the first time since he met her, she appears rattled—unable to recover quickly enough for a comeback. "What— What did you just say?"
"You heard me."
He can practically see the gears of her mind turn. He can also hear it buffer in real time, amidst her sudden speechlessness. And, as frantic as he feels for the situation at hand, he lets her have a moment.
After all, they’re really nowhere near an appropriate for such revelations, with their respective rides rocking from the pitch black waters hitting the hauls.
"That’s impossible," her hoarse voice eventually scrapes against the roar of the North Sea, stripped of all bravado. Her free hand unconsciously reaches for her lower abdomen. "I’m on—"
He doesn’t wait for her to finish, already knowing what her rebuttal is. "I’ve had them replaced with placebos on your first refill."
YN’s hold on the railing loosens as she stumbles back, her legs momentarily buckling from shock. "No," she says in disbelief.
He leaps the gap between the vessels without any invitation or warning to his crew. He doesn’t glance down at the dark, dangerous waters on his way over, his mind entirely focused on being able to catch her on time in case her legs give out. But, before he can even recover from the vibration of his hard landing and take another step closer, she has already anticipated the move. "No, don’t . . . don’t move any closer."
Max doesn’t heed her warning and takes a slow, deliberate step forward. "You need to let me help you, YN," he coaxes with a low and steady voice. "You’re not doing well."
Despite her weakened state, she still has the energy to scoff. "Of course I’m not doing well," she hisses between her teeth, seemingly recovered from her initial shock. "You were trying to make me an unpaid surrogate and a scapegoat for your stolen shipment!" She sucks in a breath as she adjusts her hold on the railing to stabilize her footing. "If you can’t afford my fees, just say that."
His jaw tightens involuntarily, the boss in him momentarily flaring back to life. "Stop being stubborn. You’re bleeding to death."
YN doesn’t blink. "I’d rather die."
"YN—"
Max doesn’t think. He doesn’t have the time to.
He reaches for her, but even his fast reflexes aren’t fast enough for a cornered operative well-acquainted with death.
She flashes him one last playful smirk—"Goodbye, schatje."—before letting go of the railing, tilting herself backwards, and free-falling headfirst into the waiting, freezing abyss.
Max doesn’t hear a sound.
