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)
When I hobble toward the door, he picks me up like it’s his right. Like the ground never deserved me to begin with.
No words. Just arms—hard, possessive, final. I try to squirm, but it’s useless. He’s all muscle and control, and I’m… not.
“Vadka—”
“Shh.”
He brings me home.
“No more, Ruthie. No more running,” he says when he cuts the engine.
“Do I look like I can run with this ridiculous boot strapped to me?”
“You know what I mean.”
Warmth settles into my chest at the sight of the neatly trimmed hedges my sister picked out and the rows of bright yellow and pink pansies.
“I’m carrying you in.”
“I get the feeling that you like carrying me,” I say, almost scoffing, trying to play it all off as a joke, when he sobers.
“I do like carrying you. Feels like carrying a doll…” He smirks. “That could bite me if she wanted to.”
“I could arrange that,” I mutter. He winks at me, and it sends my pulse racing straight between my thighs before he sets me on the edge of a table like I’m made of glass, like he’s afraid something might already be broken.
Then he… kneels.
I freeze. Not because I’m scared—though maybe I should be—but because Vadka doesn’t kneel for anyone. But he does for me.
He peels my boot off with surgical precision, fingers methodical, terrifyingly gentle. I’m reminded of him cradling his son in his big, capable hands.
Those hands could crush bone. They probably have.
But not mine.
I hiss when the pressure hits the worst of the swelling.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
I don’t respond, and he blows out a breath. His jaw ticks.
“Didn’t say you could walk on it,” he mutters, like my pain offends him. Like my defiance is personal. “You should’ve rested. If you’d stayed, I would’ve told you that.” His voice is low, taut with restraint. “Should’ve kept off it. Elevated it.”
“It’s my ankle,” I murmur. “Not a bullet wound.”
He doesn’t answer. Just sinks down, slow and deliberate, until his mouth hovers over the bruised skin.
Then—
A kiss. Barely there. A flicker of heat over the ache. Reverent. Possessive. Like he’s marking it.
I freeze. “You’re crossing a line.”
He lifts his gaze. Cold fire. Shadowed hunger.
“No,” he says. “You’re not afraid enough.”
He taps pills into my palm—careful and exact.
“Take them,” he says.
I do what he says and don’t protest. I’m tired, and there’s no need to. It’s time for me to trust him, to know that he’ll take care of me.
I’m starting to get used to this.
There’s a quiet buzz from his phone. He checks it, then silences it immediately. I glance over. Alarm icon.
“What was that?”
“Reminder to time your pain meds. I don’t want you to get behind on these.”
I blink. “You’re tracking when I take my meds?”
He shrugs. I look away, unexpectedly emotional, and swallow hard.
The meds kick in fast—heat blooming under my skin, safety masquerading as surrender. I feel the edges soften, the ache dim. Everything blurs at the corners.
But I don’t stop watching him.
Even as my body melts into the couch.
Even as my eyes begin to close.
Because his eyes haven’t left me once.
And whatever’s happening between us—it’s not mercy.
It’s a storm waiting to claim me.
I remember the weight of his arms around me, the way he lowered me into soft sheets like I’m something breakable. It’s all so comforting, so familiar.
When I wake up, I look around me quickly.
Did I sleep in the guest room?
No. There he is.
I’m in his bed. The pain meds have worn off, but my ankle feels better. I wriggle it a bit. Healing.
So I roll over and look at him.
He’s still asleep, his face unguarded. For once, I can just… look.
God, he’s beautiful. He looks so young like this. The lines between his brows are soft, his lips parted, full and just slightly pink like Luka’s. When he shifts the pillow in his sleep, his tattoos and muscles ripple under the blankets, and I love every inch of him.
I love him. I do. There’s no use in denying it anymore.
I think about what Zoya said, and I’m… proud of us. That we didn’t give in last night. Because looking at him now? God, I want to. Who wouldn’t?
And then I make a decision.
I reach for his phone. Text the nanny.
We won’t be needing you today.
Scratch that. I won’t. The swelling’s already gone down, and this?
This is where I want to be.
I stare at the phone.
The message is sent. The choice made.
I won’t be needing her today.
Because I need this. Him. The quiet. The illusion. This small, would-be family.
He shifts, muscles flexing beneath the sheet, a sound low in his throat. His lashes flutter, and then—those eyes. Storm clouds, waking.
And seeing me.
I expect the armor to slam back into place. It always does. But not this time. Not when he sees I’m still here. Still in his bed. Still watching him like he’s something I’ve earned.