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)
“You don’t have to explain anything, Ruthie,” he whispers.
I’ll never forget seeing him so strong, so powerful, brought to his knees by grief. It’s beautiful in the most devastating way. I reach up to wipe his tears, and he brushes my hair gently from my face. “Let me see your ankle,” he says softly.
It’s something tangible. Something real. He bends down, careful, his touch gentle as he cradles my ankle in his hands. I wince—god, it hurts like a motherfucker.
“Bruised. Sprained at least,” he mutters, examining it closely. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you definitely pulled something. You won’t be able to walk on this.”
I sigh. “Great. How am I supposed to work?”
“We’ll get you a boot, maybe crutches. Honestly, it’d be better if you didn’t work at all.”
“It’d be better if I hadn’t sprained my ankle,” I say, sighing.
He sighs too. “Yeah. I know. Shit, baby.”
God, I love the way he says that. Love the sound of his voice. Love everything about him.
“You sure you didn’t come here to spy on me?” he asks, brow raised.
I shake my head, a ghost of a smile on my lips. “We just had the same brilliant, tragic idea at the same time.”
Neither of us says what we’re both thinking—that last night’s mess, the tangle of grief and comfort and need, pushed us here. Maybe grief does that. Maybe it drives you into the arms of the only person who understands.
I wonder if I can trust Zoya with this. That woman’s a vault, steel-reinforced.
“It looks beautiful,” I whisper, my voice catching as I look at the grave. “You’ve done a great job keeping it up.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs. “All right. Let’s figure this out. How did you get here?”
“I drove.”
“I’ve got my bike,” he says, frowning. “That’s not a good idea for you. You won’t be able to brace yourself with that ankle. You should have it elevated. I’ll drive your car, and I’ll have one of my guys come pick up the bike.”
“I thought you didn’t trust anyone to ride your bike.”
He hesitates. “I don’t. But your safety’s more important.”
I press my hand to my chest, feeling the flutter there. “Aw. Are you being sweet right now? Vadka, is that you?”
“Don’t be a brat,” he growls, and it’s that voice—the one that guarantees I’ll absolutely keep being a brat, just to make him say it again.
Truth be told, I don’t like needing help. I hate being dependent. I pride myself on my strength. This whole thing sucks.
“Let’s get you in the car. Get you looked at.”
“I hate going to the doctor,” I whine, fully aware that I sound like a child. I pout. “Doesn’t Rafail have someone?”
“Yeah,” he says with a smirk, eyebrows lifting. “But you’re not one of the Bratva, remember? I believe you were the one who reminded me of that.”
Oh, fuck my life. “I think I’m fine,” I try to argue, attempting to get up.
“Ruthie.”
He doesn’t even let me. He just lifts me—bodily—and starts carrying me. “We’ll let the doctor decide whether or not you’re fine.”
“Who asked you?” I grumble.
He leans in, his voice a whisper against my ear. “I know you hate being told what to do, Ruthie,” he says, low and lethal. “But you do like getting your ass spanked. And you, little brat, are pushing every one of my goddamn buttons. Keep going. See what happens.”
I would turn away from him, but where the hell would I even go? One way, I’m staring into those beautiful eyes. The other, I’m pressed against that absolutely sinful chest. Not exactly a bad place to be.
At least we’re not talking about my dead sister anymore, I think bitterly. Which—yeah, I know—is a fucked-up thing to think. So sue me.
“Where’d you park?” he asks, not even winded. How? How is he not even breathing hard? He’s carrying an entire human. I get winded carrying a gallon of milk.
“Around the corner.”
We walk in silence, and now that my foot is dangling freely, the pain intensifies. It burns. Tears well in my eyes, and I don’t think it’s just the ankle anymore. Everything hurts. This whole thing hurts.
“You all right?” he asks, his voice so gentle it makes my throat ache. When we were younger, I didn’t know this softer side of him, but being a dad has changed things.
“It hurts a lot,” I whisper, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.”
“We talked about this, Ruthie,” he says, his tone chiding.
“About what?”
“About apologizing for things that don’t even deserve an apology. You don’t get to say sorry for being sad, for visiting your sister’s grave. Or for twisting your ankle while doing it. You should know by now—I’m not ashamed of crying. And you shouldn’t be either. People cry. It’s natural. It’s survival. It’s release.”
“Is that what your brothers think?”
He scoffs, lips curling like the thought itself is offensive. “Who gives a fuck what my brothers think?” He might, but he won’t admit that to me. And I don’t ask again. I just nod because even if it’s a little contradictory, there’s truth buried in it.