Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
And then his voice sounds in my ear. “How are you doing back there?”
Oh my gosh.
There are intercoms in the helmets? That is so cool.
I’m sitting directly behind him, and now I can hear him like he’s whispering right into my ear.
Of course we couldn’t hear each other over the wind and the engine’s growl. But then his voice crackles in my ear—low, rough, unmistakably close. “Press the button on your left side. You’ll hear a click. That means I can hear you.”
I fumble along the side of the helmet, fingers shaking slightly, find the small raised circle, and press. Click.
“Good,” he says, voice sliding right into my head like he’s inside me now. “There’s a mic near your chin. Don’t shout. Just talk. I’ll hear everything.”
The way he says it—I’ll hear everything—sends a shiver down my spine.
“Even if I curse you out?” I test, the tease automatic—armor against how exposed I suddenly feel with his voice in my ear and my arms locked around his body.
“Especially then, you little brat,” he growls. “Now hold on. We’re not cruising. We’re running.”
And just like that, the engine roars, and we’re gone—my breath caught somewhere between fear and the brutal comfort of his control.
“Can we keep going?” I say, unable to squelch the excitement in my voice. “This is the most amazing fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life. I don’t ever want to stop. I want you to keep going and going. Oh my god, I can’t believe this feels so good.”
His chuckle skates down my spine, and I’m grinning—no, I’m fucking smiling—and I think it might be the first time I’ve smiled since my sister’s funeral.
Nothing makes me this happy anymore. Fucking nothing.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it? I wish Mariah could’ve experienced this.”
I nod because I agree. And it feels right, talking about my sister like this. Like she just went on a little trip, and not like we’re collectively breaking into pieces remembering her.
“I don’t really think she would’ve liked it,” I tell him. “She didn’t like roller coasters. Or even riding a bike. And she hated heights.”
"That's true," he says, and I realize that somehow, not having to look at him—even with my arms wrapped around his solid midsection and his voice in my ear—is intimate, but it makes it easier to talk to him this way.
And I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him that I'm sorry for yelling at him for not taking care of my nephew when he's done his very best. I want to tell him that I'm sorry it was my fault Mariah came into the bar that night—that if I hadn't asked her to come talk about my latest drama, she would've been home with Luka.
I want to tell him that he was the very best husband he could've been to my sister and that even though she died too soon, she lived the life she deserved—being worshipped by her husband. Surrounded by people who loved her. Loved by the sweetest little boy in the world.
I want to tell him all of these things, and I say nothing. I lose myself to the ride once more.
And it feels so goddamn good. I let out a sigh at the same time he does, and I want to hug him. I want to tell him I love him—but not in the way a woman in love with a man would. I love him like a brother.
Do I?
And then he taps something on his helmet and starts talking into it again, but this time, I don’t hear what he says. I can feel the tension shift in his body before he even speaks—the way his back straightens a little, even on the bike.
Something happened. Something’s changed.
His voice is in my ear again.
“Change of plans, Ruthie.”
Chapter 6
VADKA
The first thing I do is call Zoya. “How’s Luka?”
“He’s fine,” she says, her voice laced with steel. The Kopolov women don’t fuck around—and she’s seen more than one tense situation.
Rafail raised them right. Zoya was just a child when Rafail became the legal guardian of her and her siblings. He taught them to be strong, loyal, and fastidious. And to this day, I’m not sure there’s anything the Kopolov family can’t handle. They know how to use weapons, how to navigate tense situations. They’ve seen people they love hurt and killed. And when shit hits the fan, the Kopolov family stands strong.
“Luka’s packing a bag right now,” she says more quietly. “I told him we’re going on a trip and that he’ll see his Auntie Ruthie and his Papa soon.”
“Thank you.”
I used to like to think that even the Irish weren’t so cold they’d go after a child. But I don’t have the luxury of thinking that anymore. Not after they killed my innocent wife.
A little voice in the back of my mind reminds me that her death was an accident—that they didn’t come straight for her—she just got caught in the line of fire when the Irish were on a rampage. But it doesn’t soothe anything.