A Criminal Kiss [Max Verstappen]

chapter thirteen

The moonlight painted my room in shades of silver and shadow as I sat on the edge of my bed, my cloak still fastened around my shoulders. I should have untied it hours ago, changed into my nightgown, and gone to bed. But I couldn't. My mind refused to quiet itself, my thoughts a tangled mess that all led back to him.

Max.

His name lingered in my head like an unanswered question, as frustrating and unshakable as the man himself. I tried to focus on anything else—the embroidery resting on my desk, the half-finished book beside it—but all I could see was the way he looked at me tonight. Except, he didn't just look at me; he studied me.

No one did that. Not even Clara.

There had been defiance in his gaze, yes, but also something else. Something raw, unspoken. Vulnerability, maybe. Or something closer to curiosity, though I wasn't sure if it was directed at me or his own thoughts.

I sighed, running my hand over the soft velvet of my bedspread. My father's voice from earlier in the evening still echoed in my ears, the same tedious lecture about duty, marriage, and finding someone appropriate. He didn't seem to care that every so-called 'appropriate' man was as dull and lifeless as the restrictive walls of our sitting room.

And yet, even as he spoke, I barely heard him. My mind had wandered far away, back to the shadowed streets of town, back to a boy with light, brooding eyes and a perpetual scowl.

What was it about Max that unsettled me so?

I stood abruptly, crossing the room to the window. The cool night air brushed against my skin as I pulled the curtains aside. Below me, the estate was cloaked in darkness, its manicured gardens and pristine paths utterly still. It felt suffocating in its perfection.

It was worlds away from the town streets where I had seen him, and yet, in those brief moments with Max, I had felt more alive than I had in weeks.

I traced the outline of the glass with my finger, letting my thoughts drift. I had watched him tonight—seen the way his shoulders tensed as I challenged him, the way his lips pressed into a thin line when I refused to back down. There was something raw about him, something real. And I hated how much I craved that.

Max was everything I was supposed to avoid. He was rough around the edges, defiant, and entirely unconcerned with decorum. He didn't see me as the duchess. He saw me as... as what? A nuisance? An intruder in his world?

I leaned my forehead against the cool glass, frustration knotting in my chest. What did I want from him? And why couldn't I let this go?

The logical part of me screamed that I was being foolish, that Max was nothing more than a distraction from the monotony of my life. But another part, deeper and quieter, whispered that he was more than that.

He was a challenge.

And I wasn't ready to walk away.

Why did I care what he thought of me?

But I knew the answer, even if I didn't want to admit it. Max didn't wear a mask, not the way I did. He didn't care about appearances or expectations. He was real, in a way I didn't know how to be anymore.

And I hated him for it.

And yet...

I let out a shaky breath, pulling the curtains shut. I needed to sleep. Perhaps in the morning, I'd have the sense to forget him.

But somehow, I already knew I wouldn't.

Max P.O.V

The small room above the schoolhouse was as quiet as ever. The air was cool, almost biting, but I barely felt it. The moonlight filtered through the cracks in the shutters, casting pale beams across the floor.

I sat at the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. The bread Annalise had left sat on the table across from me, untouched. Next to it was the bundle of clothes she had practically thrown at me with that infuriating smile on her face.

Thomas was asleep in the corner, his small frame curled beneath the patched blanket. His soft snores filled the silence.

But tonight, no matter how much I tried, I couldn't shake her from my mind.

Annalise.

I ran a hand through my hair, letting out a low growl of frustration. What was it about her that clung to me like this? The way she lingered in my thoughts was infuriating.

Her words from earlier echoed in my head, each one sharper than the last.

"It's just something I was going to throw away. Because I'm a spoiled, rich duchess who throws away perfectly good bread and jackets in random places. That's what we do, isn't it?" she'd said.

A bitter laugh escaped me as I thought about it. Damn her. Damn her for making it so hard to ignore her, for forcing her way into a world she didn't belong in.

She was a duchess, for God's sake. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth and servants to answer her every whim. And yet, there she was, wandering the streets at night like she belonged among us. What was she doing there? What did she want from me?

I leaned back against the creaking bed frame, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Her voice played in my head, the way she had stood her ground against me.

"I think it's survival. And I think you deserve better than what you've been dealt." she'd said.

That spark in her eyes—it had been infuriating. But it had also been... something else. Something I couldn't quite name.

Why did she have to make it so damn hard to dislike her?

I sighed, closing my eyes. I'd built my life on knowing how to read people, on knowing who to trust and who to avoid. And Annalise should have been easy to figure out. Another spoiled noble with too much time on her hands. But she wasn't.

The way she'd looked at me tonight—like she actually wanted to understand—I hated how much it had unsettled me.

What was she trying to prove?

It didn't make sense. Why would someone like her care about someone like me?

I opened my eyes, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Annalise was everything I had learned to distrust—privileged, entitled, untouchable. But she wasn't as untouchable as I had thought, was she?

She had fire. I had seen it in her eyes, felt it in the way she stood her ground, even when I tried to push her away.

I hated how much it intrigued me.

The bread and clothes sat untouched on the table, mocking me. I should get rid of them. Toss them out the window or burn them in the small stove we barely used. Prove to myself—and to her—that I didn't need her charity.

But I didn't move.

Instead, I found myself thinking about her voice, the way it had softened when she asked me about Thomas.

No one asked about Thomas.

I let out a low huff, dragging a hand down my face. She was a distraction I couldn't afford.

And yet, no matter how much I tried, I couldn't stop thinking about her.

I shook my head, dragging a hand down my face. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. People like her didn't belong in my world, just as I didn't belong in hers.

And yet, even as I told myself that, I knew I wouldn't forget her. Not tonight.

And maybe not ever.

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