Page 22 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

Baby Bumps

LYDIA

He did not get me a second bed.

His big hand gripped my upper thigh like it belonged there, and his hard cock pressed against its soft inner flesh.

The pillow barricade I’d constructed last night was nowhere to be found.

And my pussy throbbed in traitorous response to waking up this way.

Despite deliberately wearing cotton panties, the dampness between my legs proved the barrier hadn’t done a darn thing to protect me from another case of extreme sleep-lust.

Ugh . What was wrong with me?

“Good morning, zhena .” His voice, husky with sleep, vibrated beneath my cheek where it rested on his chest. I could practically hear the smirk in it.

I didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him. Just untangled myself fast and bolted for the shower before he could call dibs.

I mumbled a hi to Pesya, already bustling around the kitchen, then locked myself in for a very long, very hot scrub.

I swore I’d find industrial-strength glue for that pillow barricade tonight.

But when I came back out, the pillows weren’t just on the floor—they were gone. Vanished. Like bodies in a gangster film.

And Yom was lounging in the armchair, reading a hardcover. He might’ve looked like some innocent, insanely hot hockey player who just happened to enjoy reading in the mornings—if not for the bare, muscled torso and yet another pair of gray sweatpants.

That just made him look like porn for bookish girls—which, if you count audiobooks, I most definitely was.

Then I saw the cover of what he was reading. Clara Quinn’s latest novel. The one her fans were still complaining about because it was a follow-up to an early career sci-fi book instead of The Spring Fae, the long-awaited finale to her Seasons of the Fae series .

Six years ago, after crashing one of her seminars just to torment me, Yom had told her that her first Hugo-nominated and way less romantic sci-fi book was his favorite work of hers and that he’d wanted to read a follow-up.

So, naturally, he got what he wanted. Not Clara Quinn’s millions of fans—just Yom Rustanov.

Bitterness filled my mouth like spit.

“What happened to the pillows?” I demanded. Maybe with more force than the situation warranted.

“Oh, you are finally out of your extra-long shower.” He glanced up with a sneer-smirk, like he was only just noticing me standing there.

He set the book aside face down on the chair’s arm, giving me an unobstructed view of the erection straining against those evil gray sweatpants. “Did it help, zhena ?”

I ground my teeth, hating that the answer was no. Just being in the same room with him had immediately reheated me with the lust I’d tried to scrub away.

He rose with the lethal grace of a predator, closing the distance.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer me to do something other than take a cold shower that will be filled with thoughts of you while I ease this pain with my own hand?

” His head dipped, voice in my ear. “I believe your Yom could be put to more efficient, pleasurable use. Nyet ?”

My whole body flushed, every nerve sparking.

But somehow—I stood my ground. Managed to choke out, “I don’t… I don’t want that with you.”

“Yet,” he corrected, like I’d simply forgotten to add that word.

Then he straightened, all smug inevitability. “You will eat while I take care of this problem. Then we will leave.”

Another smirk, and he strode out in those sweatpants that I swear were designed by the God of Temptation himself.

Was there a God of Temptation? No idea. But if there was, he had definitely provided Yom with a never-ending supply of gray, erection-enhancing sweatpants that sat sinfully low on his hips.

Anyway…

On to Day 3.

So, the three-hour flight to Charleston, South Carolina, was pure awkward torture.

For me, anyway.

Ingrid chatted cheerfully in the seat beside me about how she’d never been to the American South. Meanwhile, Yom studied me with that hungry-wolf stare the entire flight, like he was concocting all the plans to break down my defenses and make me fold for him.

Skye, you in danger, girl!

By the time the wheels hit the tarmac, I could’ve kissed the runway.

But I barely had time to catch my no-longer-caged-up-with-Yom breath before a Nakumara Titan rolled up, catching the Carolina sun like a black diamond.

Like some reality show reveal, the back door swung open, and Yom’s older half-brother, Cheslav Rustanov, jumped out. And he had the cutest baby girl with curly brown afro puffs balanced on his hip.

“Uncah!!!” she squealed.

To my shock, Yom went straight for the baby, arms outstretched.

“Is that my Nadinka?” he boomed, sweeping her into his arms. “What are they feeding you? You are twice as big since I saw you last!”

“Uncah!” she squealed again, her light-brown cheeks squishing beneath his avalanche of kisses.

Then her little face crumpled. She wriggled, arms reaching back toward Chess. “Paduh! Paduh!”

“That’s her version of Papa,” Chess explained, hauling her back into his arms with a sheepish grin.

Then another voice said, “Sorry, Yom. She’s in an extremely clingy Dada phase right now.”

A woman stepped up beside Chess. Black-girl-next-door pretty, but with he sisterlocks pulled into a tight bun that put me in mind of a strict teacher or an accountant. She wore a simple jersey dress stretched over a gigantic baby bump.

“I don’t know if Nadia’s twice as big.” She rolled her eyes. “But I do know I am.”

Yom bent down to receive her awkward belly obstructed hug.

And Chess informed her, “You are most beautiful you have ever been, krasotka . But off your feet now—I do not like thought of you giving birth on runway.”

Neither did I. We saved formal introductions for the car.

The Titan’s interior had been customized—two pilot seats in the first row turned to face a second row of three. Yom and I ended up in the middle, directly across from Chess, with his 18-month-old on one side and his very pregnant wife on the other.

I tried not to gape. The last time I’d seen Chess, he was the kind of man who’d flirt with a nun while she was adjusting her wimple.

He’d even asked Merry to let him be her “first pregnant sex experience” at my engagement party after he found out her incoming baby’s father wasn’t in the picture. Twice!

And now, here he was: one hand being gripped tight by both of Nadia’s, the other planted possessively on his wife’s knee. I was still having trouble reconciling this Chess with the lothario from six years ago.

Billie wasn’t just a former Queen America contestant. As it turned out, she really was an accountant. And within five minutes, she and Yom were knee-deep in a conversation about Raptors finances, speaking a language I had zero desire to translate.

Not that I could have participated in the conversation if I wanted to. As they crunched numbers, Yom’s hand slid onto my thigh. Higher than Chess’s with no baby bump to block him.

Electricity zinged through me at his touch. It’s just pretend , I reminded myself. But I doubted I could have made small talk, not with his fingers somehow branding my skin through the fabric of my jeans.

By the time we reached the arena’s player entrance for the Puck Cancer charity match, wranglers descended on Yom and Chess, tugging them toward the locker rooms.

“I will see you after the game, zhena ,” Yom called over his shoulder to me in that vague “am informing you or sensually threatening you?” tone I still hadn’t figured out how to parse.

Then he said to Ingrid, “Come with me. There are a few things I wish to talk about.”

Ingrid, of course, immediately jogged to catch up with him and the wranglers. The human equivalent of an English Setter— which, to be fair, were very easy to train to be loyal and take on work duties.

Yom bent his head down to hear whatever she was saying, and that was when I decided to double down on my impression of a fake wife who was most definitely not having any jealous suspicions.

Meanwhile, Chess blew apologetic kisses at his daughter, who was scream-crying, “Paduh! Paduh! Paduh!” like her father was deploying overseas and leaving her with some rando woman she didn’t even know.

“God, I love her, but this is exhausting,” Billie muttered, bouncing the baby on her hip. “And she’s overdue for a nap.” She turned to me with hopeful eyes. “Would you mind taking her while I dig out her blankie? Sometimes that helps.”

“Of course.” I reached to take the toddler without hesitation, remembering all the meltdowns Chris used to have before his progressive hearing loss diagnosis, around the same age as Nadia.

Then tried not to grimace when Nadia started screaming even louder because I actually was some rando woman she didn’t know.

“Just a second,” Billie promised, rooting around the bag as best she could with a huge baby bump and limited arm mobility.

But her head shot up at the shrill sound that split the air. “What in the?—?”

She relaxed when she saw it was just Nadia, puffing proudly into a plastic training whistle. Then froze.

“Where did you get a whistle?” Billie asked, her eyes scanning the dirty ground outside the arena with the horror every parent of a “sure, I’ll put that random thing I found in my mouth” toddler knew firsthand.

“Don’t worry, I gave it to her,” I rushed to explain, pulling up the leather chain the whistle was connected to underneath my long-sleeved peach top. “I always keep one around my neck for emergencies.”

“Oh!” Billie let out a grateful laugh and pulled the bag back higher on her shoulder. “Well, this certainly qualifies.”

“Do you mind if I carry her in?” I asked carefully, hoping I wasn’t overstepping. We’d only just met, after all.

“No, not at all,” Billie said without a second of hesitation.

She handed me the blanket, and Nadia instantly spat out the whistle to clutch it. By the time I wiped the whistle off and tucked it back underneath my shirt, she’d jammed her thumb in her mouth and tucked the blanket into her cheek.

Miraculously, she quieted. Then hiccupped. Then sighed, melting into my arms and slipping into her overdue nap.

By the time we reached the family section, she was fast asleep against my shoulder.

“You’re good with her,” Billie said, letting out a long exhale as she lowered herself into her seat.

Her compliment caught me off guard, and before I knew it, I was admitting, “I always wanted a little girl.”

Billie patted her belly with a wry smile. “Careful what you wish for with these Rustanovs. I swear, Chess just looked at me the Christmas after Nadia’s first birthday—and bam, I was pregnant again.”

As if on cue, Yom skated by in his pastel-pink uniform for Team Puck Breast Cancer. He glanced up, and the smolder he shot me shot threw my chest, lighting my belly up with an answering heat.

Billie arched a brow. “See? You’re probably pregnant now.”

“I’m most definitely not,” I said firmly. But my eyes still tracked him as he joined the rest of the players on Team Breast Cancer.

“You know,” Billie said, lowering her voice, “he almost never agrees to play in these games. But Chess called him last week after Pavel had to pull out with that injury, and Yom said yes.”

A pang twisted through me at the mention of Nikolai’s oldest son. Pavel had been one of the friendlier Rustanovs—joking with me at our engagement party, even managing to make Yom smile. Exactly once. I hated to think of him laid up.

“I’m glad he did it—for Pavel’s sake,” I answered.

“ Happily did it,” Billie corrected, giving me a look. “And neither of us are convinced Pavel was the reason.”

Her brow furrowed. “Chess wasn’t clear on what happened with you two back then—something about Chess being too focused on hockey to pay attention to his brother’s love life.

But I think you should know, I’ve never once seen him date anyone.

Never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.

And that man’s had plenty of women looking at him . ”

A thrill sparked in my chest before I could stop it, before I could push it down with the reminder that this was pretend.

That Billie not knowing about anyone else didn’t mean her brother- in-law hadn’t had someone waiting in the wings—maybe still had someone at his mansion, ready to fulfill all his needs once I headed out for my four days off.

“Do you know what you’re having?” I blurted, my deflection clumsy but necessary for my own sanity.

“A boy.” Billie’s smile faltered. “Which is… a little triggering. My relationship with my brother isn’t great. If he knows he has a niece and a nephew coming, it’s only because he read about it in the paper.”

I met her gaze over her sleeping daughter’s head. “I’m no-contact with my brother, too.”

Her expression softened, full of understanding. “It helps to have a good dad in the picture.”

She looked out toward the ice, where Chess was skating warm-up laps in his blue Prostate Cancer jersey, his movements smooth and confident. Love and pride lit up her face as she watched him. “If Yom’s anything like Chess, he’ll make a great dad.”

Her words landed like a cold splash of water.

Because Yom wasn’t anything like Chess, was he?

Chess had grown up acknowledged, loved. Yom had grown up in shadows, forged in rage and resentment, barely needing an excuse to take it out on others.

Billie hadn’t mentioned Chess ever trying to kill her no-contact brother behind her back. But Yom had tried to take out mine.

And as the two teams lined up for the anthem, I forced myself to remember who he really was.

A monster.

I couldn’t afford to forget that.

No matter what other side he tried to show me.