Page 29 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

A Most Unexpected Invitation

TASHA

Six years ago

I woke to vibration. Not my phone. No… lower… deeper.

“Mmm…” I moaned, cupping my heavy breasts even as I asked, “What kind of maniac slips a vibrating egg into his wife’s pussy while she’s dead asleep?”

I already knew the answer, even before I turned my head to find my husband facing me on his pillow. A wicked smile playing on his lips. An even more wicked remote control in his hands.

I moaned again, arching my back, putting on a bit of a show. Not just because this really was a very sexy way to wake up, but because I knew he loved to watch me thoroughly enjoy his little surprise “gifts.”

His tapered monolidded eyes featured irises so dark they put me in mind of onyx—so dark I could barely make out his pupils. As usual, my entire body lit up with arousal under his gaze. Nipples puckering into hard pebbles, my sex wetting even more around the hard silicone vibrating inside my tunnel.

Tetsuro was so incredibly handsome—all lean, warrior muscle and shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair framing sharp features that had only gotten better with the fine lines of age. We’d raised five unbelievable children together, and somehow I still couldn’t believe he was mine.

I slid my hand down to circle my clit. Sometimes he let me…

“No touching below the waist.” His faintly accented voice whipped through the air like steel wrapped in silk, and the remote clicked—turning up the vibration. “I want to play with you. Until you are begging.”

I sucked on my teeth. So it was going to be that kind of morning. My husband was what the internet had started calling a black cat: a quiet, sleek, patient animal who liked to play with his food. And the best part of an empty nest was that he could make his favorite meal last as long as he wanted.

Until I was screaming and, yes, begging my way-too-patient husband to touch me, fuck me, make me come.

The egg thrummed again—higher this time. I bit my lip, already about to break into the first round of pleases. But then another vibrating sound cut through the room. Not the egg buried inside me, but the phone on my nightstand, going off with a call on top of its sleek white charger.

I wanted to ignore it. But once a mama bird, always a mama bird, even when all the chickadees have flown the nest.

The egg went silent. Suro’s thumb stilled on the remote. For all his cool hitman facade, my black cat worried, too. He just did it without so many words.

I reached for the phone with a small prayer that all our children were fine, then frowned when I saw the name rolling across the screen. “It’s Lydia.”

I almost added that girl we had to save from Yom Rustanov fucking her to death in the Chicago hotel room . But we were just at their engagement party a few weeks ago, so I was fairly sure Suro remembered.

Not one of our kids, but I still answered with a coil of unease tightening in my chest. “Lydia?”

Her voice came through, thin and shaking. “I’m sorry for calling so early in the morning, but I didn’t know who else to call… how else to get away.”

“It’s okay, Lydia. What’s going on?”

I hit speaker without announcing it—rude, yes, but I didn’t want to spook her, and the words “get away” meant I needed my husband looped in.

I exchanged several looks with Suro as Lydia’s story poured out about what had happened in some Minnesota barn with her brother, Paul, who I could only assume had done something that triggered Yom’s protection instincts.

I wish I could say I was surprised. A Rustanov is a Rustanov, and Yom’s branch had its roots in Bratva soil.

But knowing a tornado might appear out of nowhere didn’t make it any less destructive when it came through.

By the time she finished, Suro was texting Nikolai, his thumbs moving fast, expression flat in that way that meant he was thinking ten moves ahead.

I’d already taken the egg out and slipped into one of the two-piece lounge sets Spidey got me in ten different colors last Christmas—the ones I always wore for private flights in the Rustanovs’ jet, which happened more often than you’d think when you were considered honorary family.

“Okay, honey,” I said to Lydia, keeping my voice steady so she wouldn’t fall apart. “We’re on our way to get you. But first, I need to ask—are you pregnant?”

Her answer came back immediately. “No!”

It felt mean to push the issue, but this situation was already fraught, and I had to be straight with her. “Because if you’re pregnant, there’s not a whole lot we can do for you. Rustanovs go to the next level of insane when a baby’s involved.”

“I’m definitely not pregnant,” she said quickly. “I promise you I’m not.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I’m on birth control. We were planning… we were planning on waiting until he had a couple of seasons under his belt to start a family.”

Her breath hiccupped. “Oh my God, I almost… I almost married him. I almost married a monster. What if we’d had children before I found out? I don’t know… I don’t know how much longer I can keep it together. Please don’t get off the phone.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

My heart ached for her, and thank goodness for my husband. He already had his Titan keys in hand, and he led the way to our penthouse’s elevator, which shot directly to a private parking garage at the bottom of the building.

“I’m right here,” I told her as the elevator doors slid closed. “We’re on our way. Just send me your location… and Lydia—breathe. Everything’s going to be all right. You picked the right number to call.”

Six years later, and countless cold rebuffs from Yom whenever we happened to cross paths at one of his family’s events, I woke up to a “56 new messages” notification from the Rustanov Family chain—which Yom, Aaron, Lex, and Alma were infamously too serious to join.

Nikolai: Is anyone else seeing this on SportsGoss?

Nikolai: [LINK] “FROM brEAKUP TO ‘I DO’: YOM RUSTANOV & LYDIA CARRINGTON’S SURPRISE NUPTIALS LEAKED.”

Sirena: Whaaaaaaatttttt????

Bair: I am, and as my daughter sometimes says, I am ZERO-PERCENT surprised.

Sirena: Also, you read SportsGoss???

Pavel: Every chance he gets. Mt. Nik’s the worst gossip.

Nikolai: This is not gossip. This is cousin. Pavel, did you know about this?

Pavel: No! You know I would have told you after promising him not to tell you.

Spidey: When did they get back together? Over the summer break?

Sam: Maybe they finally had a long-overdue talk. Communication is so important.

Chrysanthemum: $1,000 bucks says he tricked her into marrying him. She looks happy. But drunk.

Kenji: “$1,000 bucks” is redundant. But I will take that bet.

Nikolai: No, no, children. This is not six years ago. Do not bet on Yom in this manner.

Nikolai: I now am angel investor in E-BetUrA$$ sports betting company. I will have the nerds there create special pool nice and proper.

I would have laughed. Except, unlike Bair, I was 200-percent surprised. Lydia seemed adamant about not wanting to be married to anyone who’d do what Yom did to another human being.

So, seriously, what happened? I wondered over the next couple of weeks—even as I put down 30K on it not lasting ninety days.

I thought that was a ridiculous amount of money… until Sirena, Bair’s opera-singer wife, dropped $300,000 against ninety, like she was buying a gown on sale. Apparently, she believed in big notes outside of singing, too.

Anyway, we were not shocked to be left off Yom’s post-elopement reception invite list. Rustanovs don’t forgive. Especially outsiders who aren’t actually Rustanovs.

But the morning after the post-elopement reception, I was surprised to see all the family members reversing their bets.

Bair: THEY’RE BACK!!!

Sam: I feel bad for betting against them now. It’s so obviously the real thing. And the reception was too much fun.

Ruthie: Her dress was so pretty. Totally worth flying up to Minneapolis in the middle of a school week. Party of the century.

Spidey: I wonder if any of you realize none of us Nakamuras were invited and you’re rubbing it in our faces.

Chrysanthemum: That’s not true. Your Uncle Hayato and his elf wife were invited. But they couldn’t make it.

Spidey: Well, all y’all ain’t shit. Also, if anybody’s got a picture of the dress, send it through. Halloween’s right around the corner, and I’m looking for inspo for Dale.

Nikolai: Who is Dale?

Gracie: His latest football BF link. Linebacker.

Nikolai: Now, I have more questions.

Layla: Spidey, just check ReelGram. I’ve been scrolling through pics and edits on my secret account all morning. The RG of their dance was so insanely romantic! And did you see that Erin Joy reshared it???

Gracie: She’s so fine. Do you know her, L???? Because if you know her, I’d like to know her, too.

I switched over to ReelGram from what I was sure would devolve into another E-BetUrA$$ bet about whether Gracie had enough game to land the lead actress of The Summer Fae series before Season 2.

I, too, was curious about this RG of Yom's and Lydia's long-delayed wedding dance. But I watched the clip on silent, so the soundtrack wouldn’t trick me.

Before I met Suro, I learned in the extremely hard “having to hide from the mob for years” way not to take people—or romantic gestures—at face value. The dance was cute, and it did seem like Yom was both assuaging her nerves and guiding them with confidence.

But there was this weird, long moment before they kissed. Yom was gazing down tenderly at her, but all sorts of feelings were flitting across Lydia’s face: doubt, hesitation—then she almost appeared to decide to kiss him. As if he’d talked her into it.

Not necessarily terrible. But also not necessarily good.

When I switched back to the family text chain, several of the other aunts were reversing their bets.

Including Sam.

Sam: I mean, he threw her a dream wedding reception based on her favorite book? What more does she need to be convinced to give him a second chance?

Pavel: Always bet on Rustanov.

Chess: That’s what I always say!