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 for one breathless, fragile moment, his forehead presses to mine. The kind of moment that would dissolve if we spoke too loudly, too fast. I feel his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers—racing, alive, real. It’s steady and wild, like a storm that’s chosen me as its eye.
“Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours,” he says low, his voice like gravel and velvet. “I’m taking you back to the Kopolovs. We’ll get your ankle looked at. But right now, it’s just me and you, Ruthie. No distractions. What are you thinking?”
I pause, then whisper, “I heard what you said to Mariah.”
His body stills.
“Do you regret what we did?” My voice shakes a little. “Because I already feel like a regret. I was an accident. My mother didn’t want me. And now…”
His grip tightens around me, and his eyes bore into mine.
“I have no regrets, Ruthie. Not one. I’d do it all again. Over. And over. And over. Every single damn night.”
It has got to be wrong to be turned on in a cemetery. People fear getting struck by lightning if they’re heathens in a church, but I’m practically looking over my shoulder for how desperately I want him.
I believe him. I don’t need to ask if he loves me—I know he does. And I love him too. Recklessly. Messily. Desperately.
But still… there’s a piece of me that needs to be sure I’m not just reacting to grief. That he’s not just some kind of twisted solace. He deserves more than being a rebound. And I deserve more than being a mistake.
We make it to my car, and he slides me into the passenger seat. I don’t even protest when he does my buckle and closes the door.
The drive to the Kopolov house is quiet, suspended in a strange kind of peace. At some point, his large hand finds my leg—resting, not roaming—and he strokes my kneecap with slow, steady fingers. It’s not sexual, not this time. It doesn’t spark lust. But something warm coils in my chest anyway. I like his hand there. It makes me feel… safe. Like I belong.
The house comes into view. It’s quiet. Not many cars are outside, and I’m relieved. The fewer the witnesses, the less scrutiny. The less I have to lie or explain what even I haven’t fully made peace with. I couldn’t defend what we did if someone asked. Not now. Not yet.
But who decides the timeline for mourning anyway? Who writes the rules on how long you have to stay in the dark before you're allowed to find some sliver of light again?
Is there ever a “right time” to fall in love with your dead sister’s husband?
Or maybe… maybe the only timeline that matters is ours.
The house is still.
“Zoya’s not home,” I say, a little disappointed. I could’ve used a good, old-fashioned girl talk. I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy. That this is okay. That love in the aftermath of death isn’t betrayal. That I’m still allowed to want.
“Who’s here?” I ask, glancing at the empty driveway. “Based on the cars.”
He snorts, amused. “What is this, the eighties? We don’t go by cars anymore.”
He pulls up an app on his phone, and I see glowing little dots dancing across the screen.
“Wait. Is that me?” I ask, eyes narrowing.
“Of course it is.”
“Who’s tracking me?”
“Anyone under protection gets tracked,” he says like it’s obvious.
I don’t know how I feel about that.
I watch him read the app.
“Rafail’s home. Matvei, Anissa.”
He squints at the screen. “No, wait. Zoya’s home too. Her car’s not here because someone probably borrowed it. Or maybe it’s in the shop.”
I exhale. “Weird.”
“What?”
“Her location hasn’t updated in three hours. You don’t think that’s strange?”
He shrugs. “She could be cooking. You know how she is. Sometimes, she preps for days.”
“Yeah, but there’s no holiday coming up.”
And when we step into the house—Zoya is nowhere. Not in the kitchen. Not anywhere. But Vadka doesn’t pause. He carries me straight into the living room.
The Cottage.
The place is cozy in a way that always surprises me. You’d expect something cold and severe—especially with all these stone-faced men storming through it—but no. The Cottage breathes warmth. The kind that seeps into your bones. Deep leather couches, worn from use. A fire that smells faintly like cedar. Quilts that look like someone’s grandmother made them decades ago. It feels like home.
From the other room, I hear voices. Then the heavy, unmistakable footsteps of Rafail. His shadow crosses the doorway, and whatever he thinks about seeing Vadka carrying me, he doesn’t say out loud.
“What happened?”
My cheeks flush pink. Accidents happen, but I don’t like the immediate feeling that I did something wrong. “I think I sprained my ankle. Or did something equally stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Vadka says, lowering his voice. “Don’t say that about yourself, Ruthie. Injuries happen. You’re human.”