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

Do I Want To Know?

Skye

Do I…

Want to…

Know what he made me…

I couldn’t finish the thought.

Suddenly, sensory memories flashed across my nervous system. His hands… his lips… seeking, touching, caressing any and everywhere they could find bare skin.

I couldn’t get a clear visual on what happened, but the elephant-sized question I’d been trying to avoid since waking up with the mother of all hangovers could no longer be avoided.

“Please…” I swallowed, my throat raspy and dry. “Please tell me we did not have sex.”

His eyes scanned my face like gray searchlights before he sneered, “If I had fucked you last night, zayka, your body would have told you as soon as you woke up. We both know this to be true, nyet ?”

My sensibilities stuttered over the harsh delivery, but I couldn’t deny his logic. Sex with Yom wasn’t something you forgot—at least not physically. I used to love the possessive, all-consuming way he took me, but I’d lost count of the times I’d had to practically limp to the shower afterward.

And, sure, my lead-heavy muscles ached this morning, but it was probably from all the dancing and scream-singing at the concert. There wasn’t any soreness between my legs. Yom was right. Even blackout drunk, my body would have let me know if he’d taken me last night.

But just in case I wasn’t clear on his meaning, he straightened up to his full height to tower over me as he clarified, “Of course we did not have sex. You were drunk.” Yom lifted his hand to almost—but not quite—graze my cheek. “And supruga , I would never?—”

Nope, nope, nope! Not going to get caught up in this guy’s spell again.

I pushed his hand away and rushed over to my carry-on, which was still sitting on the suitcase rack beside the wardrobe.

“Good, then we have nothing to talk about,” I said, yanking out the Clark slingbacks Merry had loaned me for my speech.

They were a half size too small. And though I’d never fault Merry for asking me to step in for her when she finally got that long-awaited genetic specialist appointment for Chris, having to wedge my feet into pinchy heels was just one more reason I wished I’d never agreed to give this speech.

“I’m going to my conference, and you’re going to your event,” I told him as I bent over to strap them on. “And we’re going to act like whatever happened last night just… didn’t.”

“Lydia—” he began, still calling me by the first name I’d had legally changed after we broke up.

“No. This isn’t up for argument.” I waved both hands in the air, erasing whatever he was about to say.

“I was drunk last night. Obviously, or I never would have let you anywhere near me. You’re basically a predator—and not in the cute Beastars manga way I used to think you were in college.

I still want nothing to do with you. In fact, here. Just take this back….”

I tried to tug off the ring on my left hand, but my stupid, dehydrated, swollen fingers wouldn’t let it budge. Dammit.

“After I drink a ton of water,” I added, giving up, “I’ll send this to the Razor’s front office, and you’ll take it back. And we’ll both pretend this nightmare reunion never happened.”

His face hardened. “I have no wish to do that.”

“Too bad! I’m done with this conversation, not to mention late—oh, there’s my purse!”

I lunged past Yom toward the crossbody bag I’d apparently flung onto the floor last night, snatching it up into my hands.

Thank goodness, my phone was still inside.

Battery at 9%, notifications blowing it up.

But still there, along with the backup travel charger I always kept in the front pocket. Reason: because I knew myself.

After plugging it in, I squared my shoulders and turned back to face Yom one last time. He just stood there, that aggravating sneer-smirk tilting one corner of his mouth. How could anyone look so infuriatingly commanding in nothing but their birthday suit?

Know what? Didn’t matter.

There were still a bunch of unanswered questions about how we’d gone from me tossing a drink in his face last night to him standing in front of me in all his Greek-god chiseled glory.

But those questions could wait—or never get answered. My confusion didn’t matter. Only getting out of here and never, ever seeing this particular poorly thought-out era of my life again.

I leveled him with my coldest look so he could see how much I meant my next words. “Goodbye. Forever this time. Don’t be here when I get back, or I’ll call hotel security. I still hate you. Last night was just a drunken mistake.”

If I’d learned anything in the six years since I escaped my psycho ex, it was this: making it crystal clear you wanted nothing to do with him was the only way to ensure you didn’t hear from him again.

I didn’t wait for his answer. Just turned my back to him to walk out.

But then he said behind me, “For your information, after this, I will be in the Benton Villa upstairs for an event Cole Benton has invited me to attend. You can find me there when you change your mind about going over what transpired between us last night.”

I almost… almost stopped to let him know that I would not be changing my mind. Or seeing him again. E-ver —with two distinct, drawn-out syllables.

But Merry’s keynote was waiting, and I didn’t want to keep breathing the same air as this monster even a moment longer.

Somehow, I managed to get down to Convention Hall C, where the EmpowerHer Summit was being held, with a minute to spare.

“Oh my God, you made it!” Tess, who was manning the table at the front door, threw me a relieved smile, handed me a name lanyard that still said Merry Winters, and picked up her walkie-talkie at the same time.

“She’s here, Louisa. You don’t have to make that cancellation announcement. I’ll bring her straight to you. Remember, it’s Skye Nelson for the introduction.”

Aw jeez … A full-body cringe seized my muscles.

This had been such a big opportunity to get reputation points for Paws & Claws, the café-slash-shelter-slash-therapy dog training center Merry and I had co-founded.

Guilt for making the organizers worry I’d flaked—after I’d come in as Merry’s unannounced, last-minute replacement—made it hard to walk toward the stage beside Tess.

Much less ignore all the swiveling heads on both sides of the aisle or the many altruistic female founders of color whispering behind their hands to each other while they openly stared at me.

Yeah, my Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria would definitely have my mind replaying this scene on a loop for years. It might even earn a feature spot in those public speaking recurring nightmares.

Still, I had to lower my voice to ask Tess, “Why did you leave me alone with Yom Rustanov after everything I told you last night—especially when I was so wasted?”

“What?” Tess scrunched her brow and dipped her head to whisper back. “I didn’t leave you alone with him! I was just as surprised as everyone else in here when?—”

“Ladies, Ladies, may I have your attention!”

The voice of Louisa, the summit’s main organizer, cut Tess off. “I’m thrilled to announce we have a very special—and now somewhat infamous—speaker subbing in for Merry Winters. Please welcome Skye Nelson to the EmpowerHer stage!”

Okay, strange way to introduce a keynote speaker , I thought as I made my way up the stairs to polite applause. But here we go….

One of the only nice things about living with moderate dyslexia was that it had forced me to memorize the speech Merry had written down on notecards by heart.

So despite my pounding hangover and morning confusion, I stuttered my way through the twenty-minute speech I’d spent days rehearsing with Merry, stopping only to guzzle from bottles of water that some angel had stashed inside the podium’s top shelf.

A couple of times, the glint of the ginormous ring made me lose my train of thought.

But we don’t talk about Bruno. Or Yom Rustanov.

So, yes, giving that speech was true recurring-nightmare fuel for the future. But somehow I got through it with Merry’s intention—to inspire other young, single mothers with special-needs kids—fully intact.

I let out a huge breath of relief before asking, “Any questions?”

As Merry’s biggest fan, I’d watched her give some version of this inspiring origin story more times than I could count on two hands.

Usually, there was a lull after the speech while the women in the audience she was addressing found the courage to ask a question, and Merry had warned me to count to twenty before bolting.

But several hands shot into the air before I could even get to one.

“Alright, yay!” I reset from my surprise and scanned the sea of raised hands, picking a Latina woman in the front row since she was wearing a tee from B-QYIET, one of my favorite nationwide charities, dedicated to preventing suicide among queer BIPOC kids.

It was a super-serious nonprofit with a sincere mission. Which was why it threw me when the woman giggled and said, “I’m sorry, we all just have to know. Was that really you on the news getting married to Yum Rustanov last night? He’s, like, my husband’s favorite hockey player.”

I blinked.

Jabbed my right index finger into my left hand—just to check on my possible nightmare dream status one more time.

Then held up my hand to say, “Wait... what ?”