A Criminal Kiss [Max Verstappen]

chapter thirty four

It had been a few too many days since Max had been dragged from my life, days of silence that felt like years. Every moment was filled with the ache of his absence, every thought haunted by his voice, his touch, his smile. 

I had tried to distract myself with preparations for the wedding, with long walks in the gardens, with endless embroidery sessions. But nothing worked. The emptiness remained.

This morning, I found myself retreating to the library. Trying to find a book that might just distract me long enough.

I scanned the spines absentmindedly, my fingers trailing over the worn covers until I found it.

The book Max had given me. 

I pulled it from the shelf, its weight familiar in my hands. For a moment, I just held it, staring at the leather binding as memories flooded back. His voice, stoic yet earnest. The way he had thought of me enough to bring it to me that night at the bar.

I opened the book carefully, flipping through the pages with a kind of reverence. And that's when I saw it—a small piece of paper tucked between the pages, fluttering to the floor. 

Frowning, I bent to pick it up. 

The handwriting was unmistakably his, the letters slanted and bold, as if he had written it in a hurry. My heart pounded as I read the words. 

To Her Grace (Annalise),
You know, you're not as bad as I thought you were. Also if you ever do find this, just know that I'll be here with you if you ever need me.
———
From Max.

There was a line just before he signed off where the only thing that occupied the space was a black, inky scribble. Looking closer I figured out the word he had scribbled out: love.

He went to write: Love Max.

I stared at the note, my chest tightening as tears blurred my vision. I could see where his pen had hesitated before he'd scribbled out the word "love," the ink smudged as if he'd changed his mind at the last second. 

But it was still there, hidden beneath the scribbles. And it was enough. 

I pressed the note to my chest, my knees giving way as I sank to the floor. The ache in my heart grew sharper, more unbearable. 

I reread the note again and again, the words simultaneously a balm and a dagger. He had written this for me, left it for me to find.

I clutched the note tightly, the tears falling freely now. My mind raced with questions, but one thought rose above the rest: I had to see him. 

No matter what my father said. No matter the consequences. I had to see him, if only to tell him that I had found his words, that they had found me. 

God, I need to see him.

-

I lay in bed, the note tucked safely beneath my pillow. The words echoed in my mind, over and over. 

"I'll be here with you if you ever need me."

If only it were true—if only he was here with me now, when i needed him most.

Did he still think of me, as I thought of him? 

I closed my eyes, imagining his voice, his face, his touch. 

And for the first time in a while, I felt something other than despair. 

I felt determination. 

If there was even the slightest chance that he still cared—still hoped, still waited—then I would find him.