Page 26 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

That Four-Letter Word

YOM

Fail.

Yom knew this English word. Had even used it as a setup for speeches before a last period when the Raptors were down. Speeches that began with “Fail” and were quickly followed by “-ure. Not an option.”

Then he would skate out and ensure that not only his team but also their opponents understood this, as well.

But other than that, he refused to ever … that four-letter word.

After ten days of wooing, kissing, and anticipating his zayka’s every need—even the ones she did not know she had—he followed Lydia into the too-small apartment, triumph already swelling in his chest.

His long game had worked.

He’d almost let the mask slip at the reception when her airhead mother offered her that letter from Paul. Instinct had told him to rip it from Mrs. Carrington’s hand, shred it, salt the pieces.

But he hadn’t.

The long game. At the last moment, he’d remembered to play it. Held position. Tucked the letter into her bag and let her keep it without showing him its contents—like a patient, non-monstrous husband would. One who never lost control. One who trusted without demanding.

See, Lydia, he’d signaled through his actions. I can be the harmless bunny husband you want. For as long as it took.

Even when her old friend Trish nearly let out that Rina was still on the Rustanov payroll as Lydia’s shadow bodyguard, he’d stayed calm. Kept the bunny ears on. Kept playing the part that would make it easier for Lydia to come back to him.

All that biding, all his temperance had led to this moment. The final surprise in his ten-day gauntlet.

“What in the…” The heels dangling from her fingers slipped out of her hand. Landing with two clunks on the living room floor.

“Surprise,” he said behind her.

She stepped up to the open doorway. A red bow hung from the jamb, framing the gift inside: a new bedroom suite.

A bright comforter on the bed. A warm wooden dresser.

An armchair. A slim bookshelf pre-stocked with special illustrated editions of the Summer Fae series.

Even a smart device so she could listen to any book she wished.

Triumph swelled in his chest when she came back out to the living room with both hands clapped over her mouth.

“When did you…?” Her gaze darted from the room to him and back again. “I mean, I know when—we were at the same party. I guess what I should say is… why ? Why are you doing any of this? For me?”

Anger threatened to curl his lip into a sneer.

Party. That was what she called it. Not the long-deferred wedding reception he had given her as a gift —a vow of everlasting affection and a harbinger of future happiness, if she allowed herself to surrender to him again.

And she truly had to ask why ?

But he pressed the frustration down. Kept his voice level. Smooth.

“I want you to know you have choices with me this time,” he said, every word requiring more patience than he felt. “It does not always have to be push-pull with us, zhena . You can trust me not to be a monster.”

She took another step forward in her Summer Queen dress. In the peach gown, she was unbearably alluring. It took everything in him not to cross the distance and rip the dress away as he would have when they were twenty-two.

He wanted badly to claim her again, to keep her with him. Where she belonged.

But her gaze flickered over his face, wary and uncertain. “I mean… can I? Trust you?”

Yom wasn’t sure if she was asking him or herself.

Either way, his reply came low and certain. “You can.”

She studied him for a long, sorrowful moment. “I don’t…”

Her gaze slipped away—and, to his disappointment, did not return. “It’s late,” she murmured. “And I have an early flight.”

A seething heat crawled up his spine, but he forced his voice to stay casual. “Why fly commercial when you have the Rustanov fleet at your disposal?”

Her lips lifted into a wry smile. “Because I’ve already bought the nonstop, nonrefundable return ticket to Canada.”

Now her eyes returned. Yom knew this was a test—a probe to see if his new bunny ears were real.

His jaw flexed, but he forced himself to incline his head. “Okay. Fly commercial. Like barn animal, if this is your wish.”

A soft chuff escaped her. “Okay. Same old Yom.”

“No,” he shot back. “ Not same.”

Silence stretched.

Then she broke it. “Thank you for the bedroom, Yom. Good night.”

She turned to go back into the room that was only supposed to be a gesture. He’d never truly intended for her to sleep there.

He couldn’t reach her. Why couldn’t he reach her? What play would get him past her defenses?

That four-letter word he hated flashed like a warning sign in the back of his head.

And before he could stop himself, he confessed, grammar slipping, “I am almost having Ingrid’s hacker boyfriend, Rajeev, look into you. To find out everything you’re hiding from me— including why you are needing five million USD. I even give Ingrid digging order.”

She stopped short, then turned back around with an expression only slightly less horrified than when she’d found him in the barn.

“But then next day I tell Ingrid, nyet . Never mind,” he rushed to explain. “Because I am not wanting us to begin again like that.”

Her shoulders slumped with relief.

“Thank you, Yom,” she said. “I appreciate you not having someone invade my personal life again.”

Her words were neutral, but her face… was not. Once, he could read her with ease. Now he could not tell if this was true gratitude or a strike of the finka knife she used on him outside Stepan’s Gemidgee house.

“ Zhena , listen…”

No more long game. He couldn’t take it anymore. He closed the distance between them to play his final hand. “This ninety days business—it is only excuse. Bullshit my PR team is providing me shovel to deliver. Of course, I do not care what locals think of me buying team.”

He sneered at the very thought. “I am only caring what you think. I am only trying to prove to you I am not monster.”

“Yom…” She shook her head, eyes filling with wariness again.

“ Zhena , listen. Only listen to me.” He caught her hands and pressed them to his heart, over the ivory tunic he would only wear for her.

“I do not want to invade. I want you to invite me into your life. To tell me your problems, so your Volfie can fix them. To choose my bed when it is time to sleep. To trust me enough to build future. To make dreams we are talking about come true. Together.”

His voice roughened. “No more Cold War between us. Enough of this, zayka . Return to me. Return to us .”

“Yom…” she whispered. And for a breath, her face softened—the way it had that night before the barn, where everything fell apart—when she’d called him her paradise.

He felt it—her surrender. He felt it coming.

But then her lips pressed into a tight, unyielding line.

“Yom,” she said, voice cool and overly even.

“I’m sorry if these last days—spent together under a contract—gave you the wrong idea.

” She drew her hands from his chest. “But I don’t want that with you.

Not anymore. Not ever again. I am not your zayka .

And I’m only your zhena on a dubiously acquired marriage license. Good night.”

She didn’t give him a chance to answer. Gathering her skirts, she turned and went—without looking back, even when he said her name.

A hard clunk followed, echoing across the apartment: the lock. Locking him out.

The night that followed was not good.

Pesya must have put fresh black sheets on the bed. Her scent was already gone. Only detergent. Only emptiness.

He lay in the dark, tossing, turning, her words circling like vultures. I don’t want that with you. Not anymore. Not ever again.

He had fought through injuries, through losses, through men twice his size on the ice. None of it had left him this hollow, this stripped bare.

Sometime past dawn, exhaustion dragged him under.

When he woke, the apartment was quiet. Too quiet—and not just because he’d told Pesya to take Day 11 off. He had planned to spend it moving Lydia into the Orono mansion. Where she belonged.

But now the second bedroom door stood open. And not for reasons that stirred hope in his heart.

The bow still hung from the jamb, mocking him and his long game .

And beyond that, the room stood empty. Save for two new additions on top of the bookshelf: a scrawled sticky note.

“I’m sorry, Yom, but I can’t do this with you.

I won’t be back on Wednesday.” And sitting on top of it, the wedding ring she’d given back to him twice.

Now, three times.

Gone. She was already gone.

And in the silence, that sasha x kasha refrain throbbed like a wound reopened:

Gone, gone, gone, gone—GONE.