Page 18 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

LYDIA

I woke up the next morning tangled in Yom’s arms.

Which didn’t make sense because I remembered very clearly falling asleep behind a barricade of pillows I’d built between our sides of the bed to greet him when he came back from his shower.

Then I squeezed my eyes shut and only cracked them the littlest bit when he entered the room. .. in nothing but a towel.

Main point, I refused to play into this one-bed cliché. I even grabbed a throw so I could sleep on top of the covers without risk of a too-aggressive turn underneath displacing the barricade I had erected.

“Good night, zhena ,” he’d said with a cool Soviet smirk in his voice after he turned off the lights, casting the room into the cool pitch-black he preferred.

I’d pretended not to hear him, and I eventually managed to fall asleep after a really, really long staring contest with the dark.

But now here I was, gathered in Yom’s arms with his much longer legs folded beneath mine.

The pillows were scattered on the floor like fallen soldiers, and Yom had a hand underneath the loose top of my sleep set, cupping my breast like he used to when we were twenty-two, and he insisted I belonged to him.

Something hard was pressed against my lower back with a steady pulse that felt like a heartbeat.

But it wasn’t a heartbeat.

I didn’t have to look to know he was naked.

Or that my body had already started reacting to being back in the arms of a naked Yom Rustanov.

There was another heartbeat throbbing between my legs.

And oh god, I should have pulled on a pair of underwear beneath the shorts of my sleep set.

Just in case I was under any illusion that being sleep-fondled by my ex wasn’t turning me on, the thin fabric clung to my folds—loud, clear, and humiliatingly wet.

With a sleepy grunt, Yom pulled me in even closer, one arm tightening around my waist while the hand cupping my breast flicked a thumb over my nipple.

Holy …

Memories of how he used to take his time with my breasts flooded me—tongue swirling, gaze holding mine as he licked and sucked. Before I even realized what I was doing, my hips rocked back, and a strangled sound rose in my throat.

Skye, you in danger, girl!

Merry’s insanely good Whoopi Goldberg impression cut through the lust haze.

I blinked. Remembering myself. Remembering my mission.

Yes. I was in danger. Not just from Yom, but from myself. From how easily my body betrayed me, how quickly every memory of what it felt like to be his came roaring back.

I couldn’t let this happen. I couldn’t let waking up in his arms erase six years of building my life back up from rubble.

Pushing out of his filthy version of a spoon hold, I disentangled myself from his arms and jumped out of the bed like some action hero careening out of a building right before it blew up.

“You are up early.” Yom’s eyes, hooded with sleep, held a bemused glint. “I thought you preferred to sleep in.”

He sat up, and I quickly averted my eyes from the near stand of his morning erection.

Once upon a time, yes, I had preferred to sleep in, especially with him.

But those days were gone. I thought of Chris, fumbling for his hearing aids while Merry fried eggs in the kitchen.

And Bully, who needed to be taken outside to run off energy first thing in the morning, unless I wanted to deal with him being a holy terror all day.

“I don’t have the luxury of sleeping in these days,” I told him, keeping it vague.

One side of his mouth lifted into that Rustanov smirk-sneer. “You can have any luxury you want when you are with me.”

The siren call of our old dynamic tugged at my chest. Me taking care of everybody else, and him demanding to take care of me. Ruthless caretaking I used to call it while going on and on about how great he was to Merry and Trish.

But that was before.

And right now, I couldn’t afford to take his invitation to step back with him into the past.

“How about a bed?” I clapped back, thinning my lips. “I’d love a bed for the second bedroom instead of an office I don’t need.”

“Yet.” He shrugged one shoulder, somehow managing to make the gesture look both lazy and targeted. Then he glanced meaningfully down at the erection I was studiously avoiding. “I will take a shower and handle this problem you do not wish for us to solve together.”

With that, he climbed out of bed and presented me with an even more perfect backside. No stretch mark accumulation for Yom. Just two slabs of pale marble dented with muscle.

“Do you know what else prevents morning wood?” I pointed out, still averting my eyes. “Separate beds.”

Unbothered, he pulled yet another pair of gray sweatpants out of a drawer made of tempered glass instead of wood, like most people’s. Okay, how many pairs of those did he own? Did he, like, buy them by the dozen, like hockey pucks?

“Lydia, you are still most amusing,” he said in that no-laugh, no-smile way of his while he slid the pants on. “Just remember, zhena , you signed up for this.”

Then he left for the shower, giving me a much-needed reprieve from not being able to think, talk, or breathe right because he was in close proximity.

Food. I needed food. Also, not to be here when he returned to the bedroom—probably only wearing a towel again. If I was lucky.

After changing into an oversized tee and yoga shorts that weren’t shamefully drenched with arousal, I wandered into the kitchen to eat my feelings about mindlessly humping the ex I’d sworn to hate.

Yesterday, we’d gone out with his PR team for dinner, and they’d walked me through the nearly nonstop schedule they had planned for the next nine days. I’d barely eaten a thing—too distracted by Yom sitting close beside me, his hand resting heavy and familiar on my knee the entire time.

His touch still filled my stomach with butterflies. Add yet another item to the list of things I hated about being fake-married to Yom Rustanov.

“Lydia, bubbeleh ! Is that you?”

As soon as I stepped a foot out of the bedroom, a familiar voice called out.

To my surprise, Yom’s Gemidgee housekeeper, Pesya, came shuffling over from the kitchen just as the smell of a breakfast already made hit my nose.

“Lydia!” she exclaimed, wrapping me in a hug that was somehow both crushing and grandmotherly.

Her hair was completely gray now, but otherwise, she looked exactly the same. Same energy, same bossy warmth.

As if to prove my assessment right, she leaned back, gave me a once-over, and clicked her tongue. “You’ve gained so much weight!”

Then she winked and patted my cheek. “Good. Pesya will help you gain more. I am making your favorites.”

My mouth dropped open when she waved a proud arm toward the kitchen table, crowded with the dishes I used to adore but hadn’t tasted in six years: fluffy syrniki , fried potatoes, thick-cut bread gleaming with butter.

“Pesya, tell me you didn’t make all of this for me!”

“No, not all for you,” Pesya insisted. “There will be two for breakfast, I am told.”

“Yom’s willing to eat that?” I eyed the feast with suspicion. His idea of indulgence used to be a few shots of celebration vodka, which, by the way, didn’t carry much of a calorie load. This carb-fest didn’t exactly scream Greek-god-body-maintenance.

Pesya made a face and lifted a lid off a pot on the stove.

“No. For him, always boring food.” She stirred a thin gray porridge with chia seeds bobbing on the surface.

It looked like something ladled out to orphans in bleak 1800s novels where everybody dies of tuberculosis in the end.

“But for you and your personal coordinator? I can cook good again. Ingrid loves my syrniki. ”

“So Ingrid spends a lot of time with Yom?” I asked, a theory blooming about the mystery woman he must have been using for… well. Release.

“Are you jealous of Ingrid, bubbeleh ?” Pesya’s lips curved into a sly grin.

“No!” I shot back too fast. “I don’t care. I was just… wondering.” Even though I’d promised myself yesterday not to.

“Good.” She patted my cheek with her wrinkled hand. Then her gaze softened. “Do you know what a wreck that poor boy was without you? His uncles could barely get him down here for his first season.”

I tilted my head, certain she was exaggerating. “You mean the season where he broke two rookie records and was named ZSN Player of the Year after he carried the Raptors on his back to their first playoff Final Four?”

Not that I cared. Not anymore. Not since I put “Artyom Yom Rustanov” on the 24/7 no-go list for my distraction-blocking software.

“I could tell he was really broken up,” I added dryly.

“Success and happiness are not the same thing, Lydia. Maybe you are too young to know this yet.” Pesya’s eyes sharpened, pinning me in place. “And I have never seen him so happy as when he was with you. Even if it was only for those six months.”

Her words hit harder than I wanted them to, and my fingers twisted at the ring on my hand, guilt cutting sharp in my chest. Pesya thought this was a fairy-tale reunion. If only she knew about the NDA-protected real nature of this fake marriage—and that I’d be gone in ninety days.

“Oh, it is so good to have you back, Lydia.” Pesya sighed happily, then scowled at the counters. “Even if this kitchen is garbage.”

She beamed again. “Do you want tea with your breakfast, bubbeleh ? I brought the good stuff from the mansion. Black, with lemon, just like I used to make for your study time in Gemidgee.”

“We’ll both take coffee, Pesya.”

Yom’s voice sounded behind me. I turned to find him fresh from the shower, fully dressed but somehow still outrageously magazine-cover handsome in a black-and-gold Raptors warm-up suit.

His eyes once again raked down my body, lingering long enough that the oversized T-shirt and yoga shorts I’d thrown on suddenly felt like lingerie.

“I will have to take my porridge to go,” he said to Pesya without looking away from me. “Early morning practice for exhibition game.”

“That’s no problem.” Pesya bustled to the cabinets and pulled down a bulbous Minnesota Raptors travel mug with a magnetized spoon. “Do you want to take a pirozhok also? To celebrate our Lydia’s return? I am just about to take them out of the oven.”

I snorted. Pesya was wildly overestimating Yom’s enthusiasm about me being here. The man was the only Minnesota transplant I’d ever met who refused to so much as touch a tater tot. No way was he going to eat a whole hand pie, no matter how delic?—

“I will take one. Thank you,” Yom answered before I could finish my thoughts.

“See? I told you he is so very happy to have you back.” Pesya beamed at me, practically vibrating with glee as she pulled a tray of golden hand pies from the oven.

Meanwhile, Yom continued to regard me with that hungry wolf look, even though the entire table was covered with food.

I shifted uneasily under his gaze as Pesya tucked the pirozhok , porridge, and coffee neatly into a sleek black Raptors caddy.

“There you go, Yom.”

Then she turned her attention back to me, her brows knitting. “Are you sure you would not rather have my black tea and lemon? You used to love it when you were in university.”

“Tea’s totally fine!” I rushed to assure her, grasping at the excuse to finally rip my eyes away from Yom’s magnetizing gray gaze.

Yom also turned to Pesya, but only to tell her, “She only says this because she believes asking you for what she truly wants will hurt your feelings.”

Pesya’s brows shot up, her face falling as she turned to me. “Is that true?”

“No.” I emphatically lied to Pesya while glaring at Yom murderously. “The only thing I truly want right now is a bed of my own.”

Yom sneered. Then set the caddy on the table before closing the distance between us with one slow, deliberate step.

“Are you wanting to have a private conversation with me about what both of us truly want, zayka ?” He leaned close enough for his breath to brush my ear. “Because I would be very happy to talk with you on this subject after the exhibition game.”

My pulse stuttered, then bounced all over the place. That wasn’t what I meant. He knew it wasn’t what I meant.

But before I could think of something to say, he stepped back and picked up the sleek black caddy Pesya had packed for him.

“Tonight, zhena ,” he said with one of those sneer-smirks that made me want to throw something at him.

I hated him. I hated him. So much.

Yet, my eyes still followed him as he walked out of the apartment.