Page 17 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

New Beginning

Zhena .

Zhena meant wife . That much I remembered without the aid of a hangover or a SportGoss news item to jog my recall.

I’d admired his Uncle Nikolai and Sam, his do-gooder spouse, so much—and that’s what the legendary former hockey player always called his wife. Like Wife was her first name, not Sam.

Back then, I thought it was even cuter than being called bunny in Russian. I imagined a whole lifetime of Yom addressing me the same way while he pursued hockey, and I helped pair people in need of canine support with their perfect service dog, while we grew our family.

That dream fell apart the moment I walked into that barn and saw the monster behind the ruthlessly carved human mask.

Yet here he was, six years later, kissing me for filth in the doorway of the two-bedroom apartment he wouldn’t even consider back then. After calling me wife.

His mouth claimed mine with surgical precision, parting me open before I could think, before I could even breathe. Every brush of his tongue dismantled me, piece by piece, until all that was left was the thunder of my pulse and the terrifying relief of surrender.

This .

This was what Merry was scared of when she’d looked over the contract I’d brought back with me from Vegas.

“This is unbelievable!” Merry shook her head after tucking Chris into bed and meeting me in the farmhouse’s living room to pore over the fine print. “What kind of black flag asks for a daily kiss—with a one-minute minimum—in exchange for a few days off?”

The answer was: a ruthless one.

Out loud, for my fretting friend’s sake, I muttered, “It’s probably for publicity or something. He doesn’t want me pushing him away when he tries to kiss me at appearances. Nothing sexual.”

Merry shot me a look that could peel paint. “Isn’t that what you tried to say about the Anything List? Plus, look at his response to your other request….”

My other request had been to remove the annulment clause that declared our fake marriage could not be voided after the agreed-upon 90 days if Yom and I had sex.

Without even conferring with their client, Yom’s lawyers had replied that this point was non-negotiable.

But I’d watched just enough lawyer shows to argue, “I don’t think that’s enforceable.

Even if we did have sex—which we won’t, I promise you, but if we did—I’d still have the intoxication defense and the mismatched names.

I’m legally Skye Nelson now, and everything, including the Vegas contract, was signed under Lydia Carrington’s name.

And remember, I paid that service to scrub me completely off the internet when I moved back in with you to start Paws & Claws. ”

“Yeah, I remember,” Merry grumbled, still shaking her head. “But right now, I’m wishing I’d never let you talk me into accepting this farm.”

I didn’t agree. Merry had been struggling to find a job, and I’d already wired my parents back their graduation gift.

But between the two of us, I knew we could apply for and win a few grants to start Paws & Claws and pay ourselves a salary.

However, I hadn’t brought it up again because I knew we’d need the right piece of real estate to do it, and that was completely out of our reach.

And then the deed to the Hanson farm had arrived in the mail with a short note from one of Yom’s lawyers. “Mr. Rustanov no longer needs this property. He is gifting it to you.”

“There was no way we could have started Paws & Claws without it,” I reminded Merry. “And we’ve helped so many people and animals.”

“Yeah, we have,” she conceded, scrubbing a hand over her face.

“But this whole thing feels like a couple of thread pulls away from unraveling. And I don’t want you compromised again.

The German was nice enough to show me who he really was when he refused to acknowledge his own son.

But Yom—Yom got in your head. He had you so spun out… ”

Her words stung. Because she was right.

But sometimes I wondered if Merry’s bitterness over being duped, dumped, and blocked on all platforms tinted her entire world gray. She acted as if I was in the same situation as her, when really, we had opposite problems.

And though I’d never say it out loud, her German ex’s refusal to even acknowledge Chris still struck me as… odd.

They’d seemed so happy when I met up with them in Berlin before the International Ice Hockey Tournament.

I remember her laughing and teasing him about being too German when he laid out his plan for Merry to finish both her undergrad and vet certification there at Mannheim University, then come back to his hometown, where he already had a job lined up for her, which she’d settle into for approximately two years before they started a family.

Now. Now, at the age of 28, was when Merry was supposed to be starting a family with him in the little wine village he lived in outside of Mannheim.

According to Merry, his plans had only meant that “fuckboism has gone global.” But how did Mr. Too-Serious-Too-Fast become Mr. Total Ghost—and not in the hot, love-you-beyond-space-and-time ’90s movie Patrick Swayze way?

As usual, when the bitter subject of her ex came up, I shoved those thoughts down. Then I gave her the only answer that would quiet her protests over the contract I’d already signed, whether she liked it or not. “It’s just ninety days. I can hold out. For Chris, I can do anything.”

Invoking her son—my godson—always worked.

Her shoulders slumped. “Okay, fine. But if you start getting sucked back into his web, just imagine me in your head, full Whoopi Goldberg: ‘ Skye, you in danger, girl!’ ”

And sure enough, Merry’s take on her favorite line from her favorite ’90s movie sounded in my mind like an alarm bell as Yom’s mouth roved over mine. Skye, you in danger, girl!

I tore away, breathless. “This… this isn’t a public kiss.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “Did the contract say our daily kiss must always be public?”

I narrowed my eyes at him calling it our daily kiss. Like I’d wanted it. Like it wasn’t his insane clause in the first place.

“No, but I assumed?—”

“You assumed wrong, zhena .” His fingers curled around my waist, thumbs stroking. “Would you like me to go over anything else you have assumed wrongly?”

His gaze lingered on my lips, making his offer feel more like a sensual threat.

Before I could unmelt my mind to scrape up a reply, he asked, “Where are your things?”

“Oh, I thought she must be having them delivered from Canada,” Ingrid piped up from behind me.

My face flamed as I stepped back out of his hold and turned to her. How had I forgotten she was still there—watching her boss devour me in the doorway? “Um… I left my things in my car downstairs in visitor parking.”

“You rented a car to drive from the airport?” Ingrid glanced nervously between us, like she expected to be blamed for me using my free will.

I’d forgotten how Yom had that effect—intimidation without even having to exert it.

Except for Pesya, who treated anyone under thirty like they were one of her grandchildren, everyone deferred and kowtowed to him like he was a reincarnation of one of those Tsars who had words like “Terrible” and “Iron” attached to their names in the history books.

“May I have your keys?” Ingrid extended a slim, perfectly manicured hand, her tone gracious but a little shaky. “I’ll see your things brought up and the rental returned. My apologies, I ought to have arranged a car. When you said you didn’t require a lift, I?—”

“Please don’t be sorry.” I fished my keys out of my crossbody purse, but rushed to let her know, “And it’s not a rental. I actually drove my own car from…”

I caught myself before spilling the exact location I’d guarded from nearly everyone in my old life and substituted, “I just decided to take the long drive from home.”

My reassurance did not land.

“You drove here all the way from Canada?” Ingrid nearly gasped, the color draining from her face.

“In your old Mini?” Yom’s voice cut in. His face went still, the careful blank he defaulted to when he was actually furious.

“Sunshine isn’t that old,” I said defensively. “And she’s actually held up well over the years. She’s in great condition.”

Because I’d mostly kept her tucked in the farmhouse garage, opting for the Paws & Claws van whenever possible. But Yom didn’t need to know that.

“It was a great drive,” I finished, keeping my voice breezy. “No problems—just a little traffic getting into town.”

Yom continued to simmer in silence while Ingrid’s stricken expression never shifted.

“You know what, I can get my own things,” I told them.

“No, I’ll do it!” Ingrid all but snatched the keys from my hand and hurried back toward the elevator.

Leaving me alone with Yom.

“Come,” he said, holding the door for me with an unreadable look. “I will show you the apartment. There is not much to see.”

By his mansion-size standards, he was right. The view over Minneapolis was spectacular, but beyond that, it was a relatively modest space—an open kitchen, a small living room area, one bathroom on the back wall, and two bedrooms tucked behind cute pocket doors on either side of it.

But to me, it felt like Old Lydia’s dream come true.

Back then, I’d visualized residing in this hip neighborhood, within walking distance of the AbleHearts Alliance, a nonprofit that matched and trained service dogs across the city.

I’d planned to apply there, and before Yom had shot the idea down, I’d pictured myself walking to work every morning, travel mug of coffee in hand, living the early twenties life I thought I wanted.

“Is it to your liking?” Yom came to stand beside me.

Damn my Midwestern politeness, I couldn’t help but default to it. “It really is so cute and perfect. Thank you for providing me with such a nice living space, while we….”

I trailed off, not sure how to politely say, act like our drunken mistake was totally intentional.

He let a beat stretch—one, two—before answering. “I am hopefully making this one thing up to you, at least.”

“I…” The word snagged in my throat. Past and present blurred dangerously, and I grasped for distance. “You don’t have to make anything up to me. Not anymore. You’re paying me five million dollars to only pretend to be in a relationship with you. I think we can call it even.”

His lips twitched, down then up, like he was trying to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “I do not think we can call this even. Not yet.”

He stepped closer, dipping his head the way he used to when he wanted me to meet his eyes.

“Will you tell me what you need the money for?” he asked softly.

My pulse stuttered. Sure, I’d prepared for this question. What I hadn’t prepared for was him asking it like that —his grey eyes searching mine with what looked like real concern.

Not real, not real. None of this is real.

I pressed my nails into my palm hard enough to sting, anchoring myself before I answered, “That’s private, actually.”

A shadow fell over his concerned expression, and he squinted at me like a really tall, really Russian version of one of those shrewd TV detectives who always saw straight through a guilty person’s lies.

“So it is for animal cause,” he guessed. “Perhaps another one of those needy friends you like to collect. Or maybe a boyfriend, too lazy or too incapable of not depending on you to fund some dream?”

I wanted so badly to defend myself, to hurl the truth in his face—that I was doing this for Chris, a child who deserved better than the hand life had dealt him.

But eyes on the prize. Ninety days. My heart intact.

My hidden identity kept. Five million deposited into the Canadian checking account I’d kept open at the Barrington Credit Union after I left my apprenticeship.

That was the mission. And my pride wasn’t on the list of mission must-haves.

He was fishing, and I couldn’t let myself swallow the hook.

“I have my reasons,” I said evenly. “Reasons I’m not contractually obligated to discuss with you.”

His gray eyes flashed, sharp as flint. I braced for a fight.

Instead, he simply said, “Okay, we will not discuss this. And if you are needing more money, please let me know. The contract can be extended.”

The casual offer confused me. As the adopted daughter of the Raptors’ soon-to-be former owner, whom the public at large didn’t know I was estranged from, I understood why Yom needed me for PR optics. But why keep me longer? Why be willing to hand me even more money to drag this charade out?

Surely, someone with his kind of face card and bed game had easily attracted another woman to satisfy him on the regular by now.

A new thought occurred to me. Maybe that was why he’d truly gotten the apartment. Because he already had some anonymous girlfriend tucked away at his home.

I opened my mouth to ask why Yom’d make me such an offer, but then closed it.

No… no intrusive, jealous thoughts allowed… no personal details wondered about. Skye, you in danger, girl!

I twisted the ring on my finger, forcing the dark green suspicions back into the box in my brain where they belonged—the one clearly labeled: Do not think of Yom as anything other than a paycheck for Chris.

Chris… he was the only thing I needed to focus on, the only thing that mattered during these ninety days.

“So, is this where I’ll be staying?” I asked finally, turning toward the bedroom on the right side of the open bathroom door.

“No. That is an office,” he replied, calm as stone. “The same set-up as at the lake house. So that you may do whatever work you require over the next ninety days.”

“I won’t be needing an office.” My next words came out fast and mentally rehearsed. “I took a leave of absence. This is all I’m doing for the next ninety days. But wait…”

I looked around, my frown deepening at the minimalist living space. One mounted television. One small couch. Big enough for two—if those two people wanted to sit close together. But not big enough for someone to sleep on for 66 nights.

I turned back to the man who had written both a daily-kiss requirement and a sex-kills-the-annulment clause into our contract.

“If this second bedroom is an office,” I asked, my voice wobbling despite my best attempt to act like a big girl who could do big fake marriage things, “where am I going to sleep?”