Page 16

VADKA

I blow out a breath. In my head, I’m groaning, but we have to make this work. I’m an adult, not a horny fucking teenager.

So I nod. “Alright, we’ll make it work.”

If it weren’t for the apologetic look on Rafail’s face, I’d almost think they were trying to set us the fuck up. But I know they’re not. They’re just trying to keep people alive.

Ruthie’s eyes are wide, but she doesn’t say anything out loud.

Fine. I’ll take the floor. Or the couch. Or whatever.

But the second I open the door, I realize what Rafail meant when he said tight quarters.

There’s no fucking way I’ll get a decent night’s sleep on that floor. I’d have to curl into the fetal position just to fit between the edge of the bed and the wall .

I’ll survive.

“I’ll take the floor,” I grunt.

Ruthie snorts. “Yeah, no fucking way, babe. You really think I’m gonna risk my sister coming back from the grave to strangle me in my sleep because I made her husband sleep on a cement floor ? Are you fucking kidding me?”

Babe? I like that.

Fuck.

She gives me a sharp nod.

“What are we, in seventh grade? We’re gonna share the damn bed, and we’re gonna keep our hands off each other.”

Then she quickly looks away, and her cheeks flush pink. I almost laugh.

She’s so fucking beautiful. And a man has needs. My fist in the shower is nothing like a hot, sweet cunt.

What if I lose control with all this sleep deprivation? What if I get hard? How can I not get hard?

Because I’m a fucking grown-up, that’s how. Of course I can do this.

She plants her hands on her hips and stares at me. “What are our options? I could go sleep on the toddler bed in Zoya’s room, and we could wake up Luka and make him sleep in bed with you.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“ I’m the one being ridiculous? You just suggested sleeping on cement. ”

“Fine. All right then. There’s a duffel bag of clothes—generic leggings, shorts, a tee, and such—in our bathroom there.”

I point to the bathroom. “Go get ready,” I grumble at her.

“Go get ready,” she throws over her shoulder like a dare, all sass.

And I swear to god, it takes every ounce of control I have not to drag her back by that smart little mouth and put her over my knee. She’s always been a brat. When she wasn’t mine, I let it slide.

But now?

Now I can’t stop picturing how she’d look with my handprint on her ass.

And she’s still not mine.

I fucking hate that I love brats.

She’s in front of the mirror, twisting her hair up, spine arched like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.

I grab the clothes just to have something to hold that isn’t her. Just to keep my hands from acting on instinct.

Is she baiting me? Of all the women in my life, I’d never say Ruthie was a flirt. She’s too snarky, too independent.

But I was married to her sister , a little voice in the back of my head reminds me…

She turns, catches my stare, and smirks. “Oh, relax. I know you’re picturing me naked, but I’ll make sure the lights are off. For your… comfort. ” She sways a bit, wobbly on her feet .

Jesus.

Ruthie’s still tipsy.

“You’re drunk, Ruthie. Drink some water and get your ass in bed.”

“I’m not drunk.” She rolls her eyes at me, and I’m losing a grip on my self-control.

“You’re one more bratty word from getting thrown over my knee,” I threaten her. “Drunk or not, I’ll fucking sober you up.”

That gets her attention. Her mouth parts, and she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But her eyes flare, and her voice drops.

“Getting kinky on me, Vadka?” she asks. And then she grins. Fucking grins.

“Ruthie,” I growl and flex my hand. I can already feel the sting on my palm.

Mariah wasn’t into any of that, and I?—

I can’t think about Mariah.

I turn away as Ruthie grabs her stuff and heads for the bathroom, mouthing off at me under her breath as she goes. I grit my teeth and take a step toward her.

What the hell am I doing?

She’s not mine. She might deserve a good spanking, but I can’t go there. She’d either slice my throat or kiss me—and neither of those are viable options.

Jesus .

I hear her fumbling around in the bathroom when my exhaustion hits me like a two-by-four.

I’ve barely slept today. My eyes are sandpaper-dry, my throat aches, and my head is pounding from lack of sleep.

I need to sleep so fucking bad. I’m gonna sleep like the dead when I hit the bed, whether she’s beside me or not.

I grab a pair of boxers—don’t sleep in anything more than that—strip out of my clothes and fold them on top of the dresser.

The first couple of weeks after Mariah died, I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I threw myself into the gym, the one thing I could still control. The burn made my own pain easier to bear, if only for a little while.

And the results? Not bad. I’d gotten soft with marriage and parenthood. It feels good to get stronger.

I strip off my shirt. Step out of my pants. I figure I’ve got a few seconds to get dressed while Ruthie’s still in the bathroom.

Just as I’m stepping into my boxers, the door swings open.

“Hey, do you have?—”

I spin around so she doesn’t see my dick, and instead, flash her my ass. Great.

“Nice ass,” she says. “Tell your trainer that whatever he’s doing with your glutes, it’s working.” She giggles, and it’s so fucking adorable, I smile.

“Just wondering if you had something that resembles a comb or a hairbrush,” she says, running her fingers through her tangled hair. “ Look at this mess.”

She’s beautiful. Disheveled. Windswept. Her eyes are bright. And there’s something about her—always something —that makes me want to wrap her in my arms and kiss her until she forgets every damn thing that ever hurt.

I need another fucking drink.

“I’ll find one,” I say. “I’m getting another drink too. Do you want anything?”

"I had enough," she says. “And wait, there’s a brush in the bottom of this bag.”

I decide bed will be a better option than another drink. So I peel back the covers to what is, thankfully, a very large bed, and I lie down. God, it feels good to lie down. Every muscle in my body is tense and aching, and my whole body needs rest. I’m suddenly aware of my lack of clothing.

I glance over at the sweaty, folded T-shirt on the dresser. I don’t want to wear it.

Ruthie notices where my focus is. “You don’t have to wear that. I’m not interested in sleeping in bed with you and your body odor.”

Brat. She’s so getting it for that.

"I bet you usually sleep naked or something,” she adds.

I grunt.

Her cheeks flush, and she rolls her eyes. "Listen, just sleep in your boxers. I’m immune to you guys by now." She waves a hand in the air.

“Spends two hours at the gym for weeks on end only to hear she’s fucking immune to me,” I mutter. “You really know how to build a guy up.”

But I’m not dumb. And I don’t miss the way her nipples peak through her T-shirt.

She snorts. "Well, if you think I’m wearing a bra to bed again—fucking torture devices. I hardly wear one during the day as it is."

I did not need to know that.

I did not need to know that.

"How long do you think we’ll be here?" she asks.

"Couple days," I tell her. "These places aren’t meant for long-term. Just enough time so we can secure the safety of everybody here. Know where we stand."

Right now, everything feels tense—on edge. Our rivals are circling, waiting for us to slip. Trying to squeeze us out of the port, threaten the docks, poison our routes. We've lost two runners already. Another went missing.

This safe house is a band-aid on a bullet wound, but it’s all we’ve got while Matvei figures out what comes next.

"I’ll have to get in touch with my boss," she says with a frown.

"If I know Rafail, he already did."

I watch as she swipes at her face with a round cotton pad, tosses it in the trash, and then runs the brush she found through her hair. She brushes her teeth and secures her hair in a tiny little braid. I didn’t even know it was long enough to do that .

She puts lotion on her hands and lifts her foot onto the tub to moisturize her legs. She has beautiful legs—long and strong—the legs of a dancer. She took ballet when she was younger but stopped because her mother couldn’t afford it anymore. I wonder if she still likes it.

"Vadka. Why are you watching me?" she asks softly, without a trace of judgment in her voice.

I am. I am watching her.

It feels intimate and, somehow, soothing. I didn’t realize until right now how much I miss watching Mariah get ready for bed. There was something about her habits, her rituals, her routines—it would signal to me that it was time to sleep. And I feel the same about Ruthie now.

"I don’t know," I say quietly. "It’s soothing."

She’s looking down at her legs, and I watch her swallow once, then twice. "Why do you keep saying things that make me wanna cry?" she says, and her voice breaks.

"I don’t know," I tell her honestly. I sigh. “Why do you?"

And then she crosses the room to me, and she’s crying. Tears stream down her face, and my heart aches.

"Oh, Vadka," she says, her voice cracking. "I miss her so much."

And then she’s sobbing.

And fuck it all to hell—so am I.

I tug her to me, wrap my arms around her, bury my face in her hair, and cry along with her. Both of us hold onto each other like it’s the only way to stay grounded, the only way to keep each other safe. I cry like I haven’t in weeks.

"I miss her too, Ruthie. I do too."

"Feels like a piece of me died right along with her," she says through her tears, her voice wobbly.

"I know exactly what you mean," I whisper, sniffling. Just when I think I’m getting better—that I’m stronger, that I can go on missing her and still be human again—part of me breaks all over again. I look at Luka, and I see Mariah. And I remember she’s not going to watch him get older.

It’s messy and heartbreaking as we both cry, but we need it. Both of us.

And then, after a few minutes, she stills. And so do I. She’s lying in my arms with her head on my shoulder, and it feels so fucking good to have someone to hold again.