Page 25 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

Adore

LYDIA

It was Trish. My former best friend.

I drew back from our hug, taking in all her changes.

She’d put on weight, too, and it only made her look more like a fertility goddess in her diaphanous green dress with a thigh-high slit.

Which, technically, was what she was going for.

The butt-length wig of red curls, topped with a crown of gold and cherry blossom sticks, told me she’d come as Nyeve—the goddess who performed a highly ritualized blessing over the Summer Fae King and Queen before warning them about the Autumn King’s incoming betrayal.

“You look amazing!” Tears threatened to sting my eyes.

“And you look like a bitch who hasn’t called me in six years!” Trish shot back, with her same no-holds-barred frankness I remembered—which had made it hard for me to believe she wanted to be a child psychologist when we first met.

Hurt and anger flashed in her brown eyes. “How could you let me find all this out through Rina?” she demanded. “Rina! Do you know how terrible she is at spilling tea? Masc lesbian bodyguard terrible, that’s how!”

A laugh bubbled out of me, despite the situation. “Oh, Trish, I’m sorry, and I missed you, too.”

Trish flared her eyes at me. “You think sorry and a couple of ‘missed you’s are enough to make up for six years of silence?”

I opened my mouth, ready to give her an even more abject apology. But her expression melted.

“You’re right. I can’t stay mad at you. Come here!” She crushed me in another hug. “Just promise you’ll never, ever ghost me again. You know I’m the main character in this story, right?”

“I do,” I whispered, trying not to cry and loving that Trish was still the kind of badass who would declare herself the main character. To the bride. At her reception.

Dessy had assured me my makeup was waterproof—which should’ve been my first clue this TBA event was more than they were letting on. But if I let myself think too hard about the friend I’d given up—the one I’d have to give up again when this was all over—the tears would never stop.

So instead, I asked, “Is Rina here with you? I’d love to say hi.”

I hadn’t seen Rina yet while on fake wife duty, but Pesya had told me she and Trish were still going strong, right before complaining that they “do not believe in marriage or children—and why is my only granddaughter taking up with a woman with perfect childbearing hips if they are not planning to give Pesya great-grandchildren?”

I could only imagine the fit Pesya, who was also here, would throw if she realized Trish had shown up dressed as a fertility goddess.

Hopefully, she hadn’t read the books—or seen the series adaptation that had landed my new favorite actress, Erin Joy, a first time Emmy win for an actress of Black and Thai descent.

Trish laughed. “No, Rina took the night off. Y’all have been running her ragged. But hey, I’ve got a teacher prep day coming up. You know I’m working as a counselor at an elementary school near here now?”

Yes, I did know that. Pesya had also ranted about how Trish claimed she didn’t want children because she loved them too much. I’d felt the same way after years of working with therapy dogs. But unlike Trish, I usually kept thoughts like that to myself.

Trish squeezed my hand. “How about if I drive into the city with Rina next Wednesday? Then we can spend the whole day catching up. I’ve got so much work gossip Rina’s tired of hearing.”

I could sense Yom stilling beside me, even as my heart leaped at the opportunity to hang out with someone who wasn’t my co-worker, co-parent, or responsibility.

Merry was wonderful, but all we ever talked about was work, Chris, and parenting logistics. A whole day of gossip about things that had nothing to do with four-legged animals or scary genetic diagnoses sounded like heaven.

But…

I glanced up at Yom, who wore an unreadable look.

“I’m not sure what we have planned for Wednesday….” I started to tell Trish.

“If you wish to spend time with your friend, I will have Ingrid clear your schedule,” he said instantly.

And there came that heart-melting feeling again. My chest trembled at his very non-monstrous offer.

“Thank you,” I said softly, trying to feel anything other than touched by his quick accommodation.

“Anything, zhena ,” he murmured, his eyes hot on my face as he used that loaded word again.

But then another voice carried across the garden, chilling me to the bone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the bride and groom to the forest floor for their first dance!” Ingrid’s posh British voice called out from somewhere in the distance.

The string octet—adorned in antlers, delicate wings, and elf ears—shifted into a melody I recognized at once, an extended opening of Prince’s “Adore.” A man in purple antlers and a matching suit stepped forward with a handheld mic to introduce himself as The Fae Purple Prince, a huge fan of both Prince and The Summer Fae television series.

As he talked, Yom swept me toward the dance floor, which sat between a circle of fairy-lit oaks with a canopy of golden moss draped overhead. He guided me to the center of the emptied dance floor as if we’d rehearsed it. Which, technically, we had. But six years ago!

“I don’t remember the steps,” I hissed, panic fluttering in my throat at the thought of tripping in front of all these Rustanovs—and whoever the PR Pantheon decided to blast this to.

“Do not worry, zhena .” His hand settled at the small of my back like a decision already made. His eyes locked on mine. “I have you. I always have you.”

And then, just as The Fae Purple Prince let out a church-trained, soul-deep “Ooooooh, baby,” Yom pulled me into the steps the choreographer from six years ago had called a Slow Dance with Accents.

His palm curved around my waist, fingers of the other hand slotting into mine like magnets. And then we moved into a romantic sway that turned into a elegant glide, that somehow became a full six-minute dance that my body remembered.

Yom kept us moving in sync with surprising ease. A nudge at my shoulder blade, a patient shift of weight, and I went where he wanted me to go, the hem of my gauzy peach skirt whispering around my ankles.

The lights above became stars stitched into the oaks, and the harp braided itself through the singer’s voice until all that remained was the pulse of the song and the way Yom looked at me when he pulled me up from the final dip—like I truly was the Summer Fae Queen of some dream realm.

“See?” he whispered into my ear as the last you are with me faded . “You remember.”

I did. God, I did. My eyes blinked hard, failing not to.

The last notes trembled away, and a volley of glass clinks filled the air. The universal wedding signal.

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

“May I kiss you?” Yom asked, his hand lifting, hovering close to my face.

Not a demand. Not a command delivered with that Rustanov sneer-smirk. A request. Quiet. Devastating.

“You already got your kiss quota this morning,” I whispered back.

“We can pretend there are no quotas.” His accent thickened, voice rougher. “Forget the rules with me, zhena . Please.”

It was the please that broke me.

Made me want to forget. The bed. The appalling contract. All the high-stakes reasons I had for not falling again.

All around us, the clinking grew louder.

“Yom…” I warned—or begged.

“Please.”

I knew I shouldn’t. But my heart…

I rose on my toes, curled my hand around his neck, and he swallowed my surrender with his lips.

The clinking dissolved into a roar of whoops, whistles, and Russian-accented cheers. Yom kissed me in a way that didn’t just satisfy the crowd but sent sparks racing down my spine.

When we finally parted, it was by millimeters.

“Thank you,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to mine. “Thank you, zhena .”

The sincerity lodged like a thorn under my ribs.

And I couldn’t help but wonder: Was this the only rule he’d convince me to break, despite knowing the stakes… or just the first?

Day 10 technically ended on Day 11, when Stepan dropped us at the North Loop apartment a little after midnight.

Thank goodness I’d be leaving in just a few hours, I thought to myself as I walked through the R door first, heels dangling from my fingers, Yom’s emerald-green cape draped around my shoulders.

This was all getting far too domestic. I desperately needed the time with Merry, Chris, and Bully to get my head back on?—

I froze, that thought cutting off just a few steps into the apartment.

Because even after that magical, impossible reception, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

“What in the…?”

“Surprise,” Yom said behind me.