Page 8 of Her Rustanov Husband (Ruthless Bullies #2)

Punching Bag

YOM

Six Years Ago

It was a bright, sunny afternoon outside. But inside the barn, it was dark and cool. Stepan had to switch on a lamp so Yom could see while he pulled on his fingerless MMA gloves and began his warmup stretches.

A sign of good construction, Yom decided—silently commending himself for the impulsive purchase last May. He’d had no real use for a failed soybean farm. Except to torture Tommy Hanson in its barn for weeks before pushing him into a freshly dug grave and setting him on fire.

Now it served a second purpose: his Friday upper body punching bag workouts. Proof that one never knew when a structure might come in handy …so long as it sat far enough off Highway East that no one could hear his fists slamming into flesh—or the screaming and begging that followed.

His latest dumbfuck punching bag dangled from chains in the center, feet barely scraping the ground. Quiet, for once. Even when Yom drew the finka knife he favored for their Confession Time Talks.

Too quiet.

Yom frowned, an eyebrow arching as he studied the way the punching bag’s head lolled. It wasn’t the usual coward’s tilt—angling to save his smug face from the two head shots Yom allowed himself above the shoulders per session.

No. This was different.

Usually, Carrington started begging the second Yom entered the barn.

No, no, not again, man! I can’t take it! I swear I won’t bother her ever again—won’t even look at her.

Useless promises. Yom already knew he wouldn’t ever breathe the same air as his Library Girl again.

And promises could never make up for what Carrington had admitted to doing to Lydia during their Confession Time Talks.

The pinches when they were kids, just after her birth mother’s cancer death left her alone in the world.

The head games when they were teens— Why did they take you in?

Why didn’t they just get a dog? Dogs are smarter and prettier than you.

Doglexia. That was the nickname he’d given her behind their parents’ backs, what he’d encouraged other kids to call her during the one year when they attended the same private school—until his father sent him away to boarding school because he got caught “just once by our stupid housekeeper” slapping his sister.

That Confession Time tale had actually made the punching bag blubber, with tears running down his face. “Dad called me a liability. Said Lydia at least tried to be a good daughter. How did my dad end up loving a damn orphan more than me?”

But now, instead of whining excuses for his past behavior, he was pale and clammy, eyes half shut, drifting.

Yom flexed his grip on the finka, the Russian fighting knife Uncle Bair had handed him the night Paul tried to attend their engagement party.

Lydia had insisted on letting her parents invite him to both events. Had even made Yom promise a second time not to hurt him. And that entitled ublyudok had actually been stupid enough to show up.

Fortunately, one of his uncles had understood the position this put Yom in. Not only had Bair been generous enough to deliver Paul bound and already pre-beaten to Minnesota the next week, he’d taught Yom the old Rustanov “Thousand Cut” method.

“You will simply count days you want him to live, subtract the necessary healing days, divide by a thousand. Then you will know how many shallow cuts to give him each time.”

Yom had been careful. He hadn’t cut toO deep and stopped his workouts as soon as Carrington fell unconscious. He wanted the pain to last—longer even than Tommy’s.

But Tommy had been a Division One hockey player, conditioned to take punishment.

Paul Carrington was an investment banker with a bad coke habit and a gambling addiction.

Even with a full seven days to recover between sessions, after more than a month of serving as Yom’s Friday-afternoon punching and cutting bag, his head now sagged, his body failing.

Instead of begging for his life, he hovered on the edge of unconsciousness.

Not good.

“Stepan!” Yom barked.

His guard was by his side in seconds, eyes sweeping Carrington’s slumped body before snapping on a penlight. He wrenched the blond male’s head up and checked his eyes.

“I walked him only a couple hours ago,” Stepan muttered in Russian. “But he breathes not so good, and his pupils are blown. He will maybe die today when you use him for punching bag. Do you want me to dig grave early?”

A machine called a backhoe had been parked outside the barn ever since February, when Yom ordered him to dig graves for Tommy Hanson and his father. It would be easy to end this now.

But Yom answered, “No. I want him conscious. I want him aware for his final death.”

Perhaps this was for the best as he would be leaving with Lydia next week to move into their new home in Minneapolis, a sprawling mansion close to the stadium.

He could afford to give Carrington a week or two to heal from his wounds—just enough time to withstand more torture at Yom’s merciless hands.

He switched to English. “Get him doctor. Then contact me when I can start again. Also…” Yom only gave a few seconds of consideration to the possibility of not indulging his next dark thought. “…also have doctor take his dick while he is keeping him alive. Then put it in small jar.”

Yom turned to go. “I want him to look at it while I torture him for few more weeks left in him before I throw him in hole and set him on…”

The word fire died in his throat. Yom froze.

Lydia.

His zayka … the woman he wanted nothing more than to marry in just a few weeks…

She was standing there.

Staring at him, wide-eyed, as her adoptive brother’s body swayed from the chains in the background.