Page 35 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

Adequate Arousal Achieved

LYDIA [legally now]

“They’re ready for you in the nursery, Lydia,” Ingrid said, peeking her head into the door of my bedroom, where I was sitting in the white mohair armchair, wearing nothing but a white robe.

A mere fifteen minutes after Nikolai and his family left, everyone from the Havermore Institute was in place.

Yom—and everyone else but me—called it the nursery because that had been its original intention when we toured the house.

“There’s a connecting door to another smaller room here,” the high-end realtor told us as he walked ahead to push open a door that led directly to the mansion’s largest primary bedroom.

“It doesn’t have an ensuite bathroom, but you could convert it into a dream closet or maybe an additional bedroom.

I know some women love to have their own space.

Or maybe a gaming room for you, young man. ”

“It will be nursery,” Yom decreed as soon as we walked into the empty room and saw the space for ourselves. He glanced around before pulling me into his side to press a kiss into my temple. “For when we are ready to start family.”

“Great idea!” the realtor agreed, beaming his approval.

So, Yom—and therefore everyone in his orbit—called it the nursery. But as I stepped through the hallway entrance, the word that pressed against the back of my tongue was lab.

A mobile gynecology exam bed sat in the center of the room, its stirrups adjusted for maximum bend of the knees.

Machines ringed it like inanimate sentries, their monitors endlessly scrolling lines of numbers and letter codes across their LED screens—data I couldn’t have understood even if I didn’t have dyslexia.

No one greeted me. As promised, Havermore staff moved discreetly, invisible whispers made by nameless attendants dedicated to carrying out the procedure.

And I went along with it like a character in one of those sci-fi stories set in sterile techno dystopias. I held out my arms, and an unseen attendant whispered up behind me to remove my robe. Then I climbed onto the exam bed, placed my feet in the stirrups, and lay back.

Attendants moved in like factory robots on either side, pressing adhesive nodules to my temples, above my breasts, along my inner thighs, and across my lower abdomen.

One attendant pricked my finger for a blood draw while another clipped a pulse monitor module to the other hand.

The last leaned in without a word, swabbing the inside of my cheek before retreating.

There came a few minutes of silence as I stared up at that pristine white ceiling.

Then a disembodied voice said, “Ovulation confirmed. You may begin manual preparation.”

Translation: Go ahead and finger yourself until adequate arousal is achieved so lube won’t be needed for the “conception effort.”

The first time I did this back in September, it was awkward—but just a novel enough experience for another dubious ADHD superpower to kick in: being able to get off quickly with the right erotic fantasy fuel.

For ironic example, being in a techno dystopia where you had to rub one out in front of a bunch of silent attendants before getting fucked.

But this was two failed cycles and one horribly emotionally conflicted Thanksgiving Dinner later. Also, most likely my last chance, since my fertile window had never lasted longer than five days, and in October, I only got four.

I stared up at the ceiling, hand moving uselessly as I tried and failed to access my short-circuiting imagination.

“Optimum arousal still not reached,” the disembodied voice noted after what felt like centuries’ worth of trying. “And Mr. Rustanov’s arrival is imminent.”

Another attendant approached with a small white box, which I already recognized from the one other time I’d failed to achieve optimum arousal—perhaps not coincidentally on the final day of my October cycle.

Maybe my subconscious just knew when I was on my last chance. And this wasn’t just my last chance for this cycle, but for everything: shared custody of Bully, being able to continue playing the role of Lydia Rustanov—everything rode on Yom’s primary condition.

Providing him with a baby to make up for the one I’d kept from him.

Anxiety levels rising, I reached for the “assistive aid,” which was more Havermore-speak for a sterile white vibrator—just as the sound of a door opening filled the otherwise aggressively silent space.

“Is she ready?” came Yom’s voice as he crossed the room from the primary bedroom suite I still hadn’t seen.

“Apologies, Mr. Rustanov, but there is insufficient lubrication,” the disembodied voice answered. “Ovulation window remains optimal. Conditions, not yet.”

Yom let out an annoyed grunt.

And I pressed my dry lips together. Their conversation was giving teacher tattling on student to a disappointed guardian energy.

I took the assistive aid out of the box and wished—not for the first time—that they would just use lube.

But back in October, when I’d actually dared to ask about this, I was told, “Lubricants can interfere with sperm motility, and barriers impede conception. If absolutely necessary, we can use a lab-grade medium.”

I opted for the assistive aid because whoever was doing all the talking for the otherwise silent “live conception effort optimization” team made lab-grade medium sound like poison that will kill all chances of you getting pregnant and being able to stay in this gilded mansion cage with Bully.

But before I could press the stainless-steel power button at the top of the vibe, Yom appeared in his robe between my stirruped legs, casting a heavy frown at my now-not-glistening-at-all pussy.

“You have managed to do this yourself every other night in the fifteen minutes before my arrival,” he said. “Why not now?”

“I don’t know, Yom,” I snapped. “Maybe because I just spent an entire Thanksgiving Dinner pretending to be the perfect version of your wife.”

It had been a long day, and this conception effort already felt twice as long.

Something sharp in me broke the surface.

“Maybe because this is the most fucked-up way to go about creating a baby. Or maybe because this is most likely my last chance, and if this doesn’t work, I get sent away.

Somehow, none of that is turning me on right now. ”

He tilted his head, like I’d made an interesting point in a shareholder meeting. “So you are needing to be turned on?”

His hands made their way to the soft flesh of my inner thighs. Thumbs stroking. “Opened up to receive my last deposit.”

Somehow the room got even quieter. Not a beep from the monitors. Not a movement from the staff. Not a breath from anyone, including me.

Yom’s hand—the hand that hadn’t touched me in anything but a performative or clinical way in months—drifted to my pussy, fingers grazing over my mons before pressing down on my clit.

“Will you show them?” he asked beneath his hooded gray gaze. “How quickly you can become wet for me?”

The answer was very quickly—way, way too fast.

I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my mouth with one hand, trying not to porno moan in front of all the Havermore robots watching and monitoring me. But even without seeing, I’d bet money that the heart monitor was beginning to spike and frantically pulse.

In what felt like only seconds, he was able to turn his hand over and push two fingers into my tunnel with a mortifying ease.

But not mortifying enough for Yom.

“Show them, Lydia.” Yom’s command rolled into my ear like smoke as he worked my pussy with clinical accuracy. “Show the workers how fast you fall apart under my touch.”

Heat surged, ugly with humiliation. But my body responded like something puppeted. I cried out against my hand as the climax broke over me sharp and fast, shuddering up my spine and arching my back.

“Adequate arousal achieved,” the disembodied voice informed us. And though Havermore prided themselves on their professionalism, it now sounded a little breathy.

Yom stepped back, pulling his fingers out of me with a wet squelch. And when I opened my eyes, he had his hand held out to an attendant, who removed my essence from his skin with a medical-grade wet wipe.

He didn’t lick his fingers clean. Of course, he didn’t. Yom hated me now, I reminded myself. And I shouldn’t expect past Yom behavior from him.

As if to prove my point, Yom commanded, “Bring the screen.”

This was the most humiliating part. A couple of attendants rolled in a custom half curtain from either side of the table and Velcroed the two pieces of hanging fabric together.

Not so I couldn’t see, but so he wouldn’t have to see me.

It had appeared back in September, on the second day of my ovulation cycle. And Yom had made sure I understood why he’d ordered it specially made.

Beyond the screen came the sensation of him lining himself up and pushing into me, this time with his long, thick cock. He grabbed on to my hips with just enough grip to give himself the leverage he needed to start thrusting into me all purpose, no clit stimulating hip roll.

A handful of pumps.

Then came the warm rush of him spilling into me.

But that was the only warm thing about it.

“Deposit achieved,” the disembodied voice announced.

With that, the partition was whisked away. And I watched Yom coldly tie his robe as a couple of attendants swept in, businesslike.

One asked me to bridge for her while the other slipped a wedge under my hips, tilting my pelvis up as if my body were a bowl they needed to keep from spilling.

Then the wedging attendant pushed my knees together and pulled an elastic band loosely over my thighs to discourage movement while the other one set a timer on her watch.

She nodded, and the disembodied voice informed us, “Twenty-minute intake timer has begun.”

This was all so…

Tears slid into my hairline and pooled in my ears as I stared at the ceiling, hating this… hating this so much. Especially the part where I wished it could be different.

And still, I couldn’t help searching for Yom in this sea of thrashing emotion. My eyes found him already heading back toward the connecting door of his bedroom. The bedroom that was supposed to be ours.

More misery gathered, like starving people staring at a pot of cold food they couldn’t safely eat.

Suddenly, I couldn’t… I just couldn’t hold on to hope anymore. This was my last chance, but a terrible feeling thrummed in my chest. Made me speak, even though Yom had already shown for three whole ovulation cycles that he truly was a monster who could not be apologized to enough. Or reasoned with.

“You can’t make a baby out of hate,” I told his back. “That’s probably why I’m not pregnant yet.”

He stilled, his back muscles going rigid underneath the robe’s silk.

Then he turned his head, only slightly, to say, “In any case, this will be the last time I ever have to touch you.”

He hadn’t hit me. Even Yom would never do that.

But it felt like he had as he walked out without another word to me. Possibly ever.

And nineteen minutes later, the watch of the attendant monitoring my time spent in the optimum position of intaking Yom’s sperm let out a tinny series of beeps.

Another attendant came to check for “leakage,” a word that made me want to peel out of my skin, as another nurse taped me into a Retention Garment? (patent pending), which they insisted wasn’t a diaper but went on like one.

The wedging attendant held up my robe in a way that made me think of pampered princesses as I stood and turned around to slip my arms into it—but made me feel the opposite of royal or treasured or anything but a vessel for Yom Rustanov.

“Please begin monitoring your morning pee, starting at one week,” the disembodied voice said as another attendant handed me a cup of water. “And we’ll send a nurse over for the scheduled bloodwork in ten days.”

The final appointment. I nodded, even as the words You can’t make a baby out of hate continued to echo in my head.

Later, released to my room, I did my new nighttime routine in perfect order: shower, robe, lights off.

Cry until sleep took pity on me.

On Day 86 of my contracted marriage extension to Yom Rustanov, I peed on a stick first thing in the morning, as instructed by the sole speaking attendant.

And my chest hollowed out when I saw the result.

Somewhere in the distance, a phone vibrated. Mine. With the name Havermore Institute rolling across its screen.

“Hello, we’re calling to check in on today’s pregnancy test. Any results?”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

“So far it’s a negative,” I eventually answered.

“Noted. Keep testing for three more days. Then we’ll send an attendant to draw blood, just to make sure it’s another failed cycle.”

“Okay.” My voice was a small thing in a universe of wind.

The line clicked off. I went back to my room, let two hysterical sobs fight their way out, then hauled myself upright. I twisted the ring back and forth on my finger. Thought. Then twisted it some more.

Then I dug out the phone I hadn’t used since coming here from Gemidgee to make a call.

“Hello?” Tasha’s warm voice answered, sounding a bit confused. She didn’t have the number I’d used in Gemidgee.

“Hi, Tasha. It’s Lydia. I know I said I’d be fine. But…”

The word monster whispered through my head, again and again.

“I don’t think I have any other choice,” I said. “I need your help.”