Page 11

I hand her the bag of cookies. "Anya said she put in a little something special for you too.” I hand the second bag to Josie, hoping they aren’t too crumbled after the ride.

"She said?—"

The nurse peeks in. Her breath catches. “Oh. Are those the honey-walnut pirozhki? With the citrus glaze? ”

She takes one out like it’s sacred.

“Those are my favorite. She only makes them seasonally.”

There’s a beat of reverent silence.

“She said you looked tired last week,” I say. “Wanted to make sure someone was looking after you too.”

Josie sighs. “Tell her thank you. Tell her… that mattered. This is sometimes a thankless job, you know?” She smiles. “These are my favorite though.”

“I bet,” I say with a sigh, riddled with guilt that I’m not here more often.

My mom sits back in her chair and looks out the window, nibbling her cookie in silence.

"How's Luka?” Mom asks. “Is he walking yet?"

A shadow crosses Vadka’s face. "Yes," Vadka says, glancing at me. My heart tumbles in my chest.

He’s been walking for years. I wonder what Vadka’s thinking. Is he immediately transported back to Luka’s toddler days too?

Vadka actually stifles a chuckle. “He's gotten quite good at walking.”

Glad one of us has a sense of humor about this.

"What a good boy," she says softly. "He has his mother's eyes, doesn't he?"

"Yeah," I say, and then, before I know what’s happening, I’m blinking rapidly. And then I'm crying. I hate it. But the harder I try to stop, the faster the tears fall. Because he does have his mother's eyes, and I miss my sister, and it's not fair .

I swipe at my tears and try to turn away from Vadka, but it's too late—he knows I'm crying too. Quietly, wordlessly, he reaches for my hand. His larger, warm hand means more than any smile, and the lump in my throat dissolves. And then I'm crying harder, tears falling down my cheeks.

Quietly, he tugs me over to him and gives me a warm hug.

I bury my head on his shoulder, even as my brain tells me this is wrong, that I'll regret it, and I shouldn't be doing this.

But my fucking god , it feels good to be comforted by someone—especially by someone who loved my sister as much as I did.

The tears end quickly, almost abruptly, and I feel a little lighter. I sniffle and wipe my eyes, grateful that my mom is still looking out the window and oblivious to the fact that I just cried. I don't want to explain myself.

Vadka presses a hand to the back of my head, stroking once, down the length of my hair, before he pulls away.

"Bring him in to see me, will you?" my mother asks.

Vadka nods. Even though it's a lie. My mother only knows baby Luka. She doesn't understand that he's getting older. Every time she sees him, it sends her into another tailspin.

No, she won't be seeing him.

Then she gives me a watery smile. "You two always were the most beautiful couple," she says.

Now it's my turn to wince at Vadka.

"Are we? Thanks, Mom." My cheeks feel hot .

What is going on with me? I don't blush. I never used to cry. And now I've done both in the space of two minutes.

"We have to go," Vadka says, more serious now, not as amused by my mother's comment as I am.

Shit . Does he think that I'm hitting on him? I don't want to do anything that's going to make him pull away from me.

"Sorry," he says quietly. “The text I got when I came in here was from Rafail. We need to go. It's urgent.”

My heart thumps faster.

"Okay. Bummer,” I mutter. “I was hoping we could hang out here all day."

Why does it always make me feel like I won something when he smiles at me? But I feel better knowing that my mom has taken her medication, that she's getting ready for lunch. Her room looks clean and bright, and I'm glad they moved her. This one gets more sun.

I hate coming in here alone, but it's not so bad when I have somebody with me. And I feel better after the little cry. I needed to do that. I might need to do it again soon.

"What's going on?" I ask him. He mentioned something with the Irish.

"I'm not sure yet. I need to check in with Rafail."

"And Luka?"

"He's safe with Zoya."

As we get to my car, I feel a little guilty—until I remember that Luka is with the Kopolovs, and I’m confident that they are feeding him and entertaining him and taking care of him.

We were supposed to go back to the house and grill food and have dinner.

Like a family. But Mom's at peace now, she's taking her meds, and I need a little time to myself.

"See you back at the house?"

"Yeah," I tell him with a little nod. I do want to say goodbye to my nephew, and I’m starving. But I'm not gonna stay long because I need to get home. I need to veg out on my couch and maybe eat some ice cream and doomscroll for a little bit. "I'll see you there," I tell him.

I get in my car, and he gets on the back of his bike and starts it up. It rumbles beside me, and I pull up my phone, checking my messages.

Why hasn't he left yet? Is he making sure that I get home alright, or… He hasn't moved. I pretend I'm not looking at him in my peripheral vision and start my car.

Or try to. A strange little clicking sound happens when I turn the key. Disbelieving, I turn it again.

And again.

And again.

Fuck .

Vadka is watching me, his helmet on, his huge bike rumbling beneath him, but he doesn't move. Finally, he swings his leg off the side of the bike, walks over to me, and raps a knuckle on my window. I roll it down.

"Won't start?"

"Yeah," I say with a sigh. “I have no idea what's wrong. ”

"Pop the hood," he rumbles. His eyes are narrowed on me because obviously, he thinks this has something to do with me neglecting the care of my car.

With a sigh, I pop the hood. He pokes around, looks at things that I have no clue about because I'm not a car person, and he scowls and shakes his head.

"Hey, my service stuff is up-to-date, okay? Don't start judging me, buddy."

A brisk wind has kicked up, and I'm cold. I rub my bare arms. It was a warm day that's quickly faded to overcast and chilly, and I'm kicking myself for not bringing a sweatshirt or sweater or something.

He looks at me curiously. "Why did your mind go there? Why are you thinking that?"

"Because earlier, you were saying shit about me not taking care of my car," I say with a shrug. "I mean, obviously, right?"

He bends over the hood of my car, and a lock of hair falls across his forehead.

I want to brush it off. I want to tell him he doesn't have to do this because I would feel shitty if he got grease on that perfectly white shirt.

But I'm too mesmerized by the span of his large hands on each side of my car, the way his lips are pressed together in a thin line, and the memory of how he handled my mother with such perfect ease.

Oh, Vadka.

"I'm not checking in on how well you cared for your car, Ruthie. I'm checking to see if someone has fucked around with it. "

For the past years since my sister was married into this family, I've only been tangentially related to them. And now this is the first time I'm realizing that the life Vadka—and even my sister—lead is so vastly different from mine.

Yes, I've given them information when I found it. Yes, I've befriended the family, but I can't ever remember wondering if someone fucked around with my car .

What does this mean? I remember going shopping with Mariah, and she would have bodyguards.

I remember the little red light flashing on her phone, indicating that Vadka was tracking her location at all times.

I thought it was a little much, a little over the top, and I never really understood what was going on.

But I'm starting to understand now.

I rub my arms again, and it does little to warm me up.

"Put my jacket on," he rumbles, jerking his head at a leather jacket strewn across his seat.

No . I don't want to put his jacket on. It will smell like him and be all warm and leathery, and it's so fucking intimate, and I'm not in a place where I welcome intimacy. Not now. So I shake my head.

"I'm fine."

His eyes flicker to mine, and I wonder if he's going to push the issue, but he only shakes his head and goes back to the car.

"Well?"

"I think it's your starter. I don't see any indication that anybody fucked around with it. Yet . ”

"So we will call a tow truck or?—"

"No. I'll have Matvei come pick it up. He'll take a closer look. You'll ride on the back of my bike, and I'll take you home."

What does "home" mean? Does he mean he'll take me back to his house, the Kopolov family house? Or back to my apartment?

Does it matter?

I need to get out of here.

“You’re not driving this,” he growls.

I open my mouth to argue.

“ Not negotiable.” His voice is steel. Final. Not just because he’s in control but because he cares in that brutal, infuriating way that makes me want to both scream and melt all at once.

And goddammit, why does that make me feel safe?

So I do the only sensible thing. I nod my head and agree. Still… “But I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before.”

His brows quirk up. “Really? It’s easy. I’ll help you.”

I'm not even sure my sister ever rode on one either.

She was terrified of motorcycles and hated that he drove one, but finally caved when she saw how much joy it brought him.

He has one of those thick, sturdy ones, and it's so fucking beautiful, all shining black and silvery chrome.

I run a finger over the black edge of a tire and don't realize he's watching till the corner of his lips quirks. He wipes his hand with a rag .

"Where did you get that?" I ask him.

"I keep them with me," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

I keep lip gloss in my purse, and he keeps rags on his motorcycle.

All right then. Fine.

Why is it so sexy watching him step back from the hood of the car and wipe grease off his big, manly hands? His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, his collar undone, revealing tanned skin and tats.

Okay. All right.

Time to pull myself together.