Page 17

A part of me wants to say I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve been stronger for her. But another part of me knows—I can only give her what I have. I can’t pretend to be whole when I’m broken. When I’m aching. When sometimes it feels too hard to breathe.

I reach for the bedside table and find a small square box of tissues and hand her some. She blows her nose. I grab a couple and blow mine.

"Fuck it," I tell her. "I’m sorry—" I start to say, but she puts a hand on my shoulder.

"For loving my sister?" she says. "Don’t you ever fucking apologize for that again. "

"No," I say quietly. "I just… I want to stay strong for you. That’s what Mariah would’ve wanted."

She rests her hand on my cheek and holds my gaze with hers. Her voice is strong now. Certain.

"And at what point," she whispers, "have you ever stopped being strong for me?"

"God, Ruthie."

I tug her to my chest and hold her in a hug, one hand on the back of her head, my other arm wrapped around her—because I never wanna let go. Never .

“Oh look, there’s a little fridge in here,” she whispers.

And I finally release her.

“Maybe there’s water?”

She opens it and finds two bottles of water. “Almost as if somebody knew we’d either be crying or drunk or both,” she says and hands me a bottle. I twist off the top and quietly drink the water. Funny how a cold bottle of water actually does help.

“Come on,” I say quietly, patting the bed next to me. “Get in bed. I won’t touch you.”

“What if I want you to?” she says with a giggle. And this time, she doesn’t meet my eyes. “I mean, you don’t have to feel me up or anything, but… might be nice to fall asleep next to each other? And…”

I roll her over and give her ass a good, hard swat. My hand is big, so it covers a lot of real estate. “Behave, woman. ”

“My fucking god, your hand is like a paddle!” Her cheeks are flushed as she rolls over.

“I said behave and go to sleep,” I growl.

“Fine,” she says, and I don’t miss the little smile she gives me.

She nestles down beside me, chasing sleep. And right now, sex is the furthest thing from my mind—because my arm is around her, and she’s tucked up against my chest, and I realize just how much I fucking miss this. Holding someone. Protecting them. It fulfills something primal in me.

It doesn’t take long for her breathing to slow.

And it doesn’t take long for me to get turned on. I can’t help it—it’s just life. I pull back a little, just to give her space, but I keep my arm around her. My eyes feel so heavy.

I wake up the next morning, my arm still draped over Ruthie. It’s the first night I’ve slept through since Mariah died.

I tell myself it’s because we’re in the safe house, my brothers are here, and there’s no fucking way anybody’s getting to the people I love—not while we’re here. But I know, deep down, it’s due in some part to the beautiful woman beside me.

She’s snoring, and there’s a line of drool stretching from her lip to the pillow. I can’t help it—I laugh out loud, which jolts her.

“What?” she says, blinking, startled. “Rude.”

She sees me grinning. “Whatever. That’s what happens when people sleep. Forgive me if I was fucking exhausted.”

“Not judging,” I tell her. I roll over and stretch my arms above my head, adjusting the sheets around me so she doesn’t see the raging fucking wood I woke up with. Natural biological thing, sure—but something tells me it would complicate things. I’m a big guy, and I’m pretty sure she notices.

She stretches, too, arms over her head, and yawns like a cat. “Did you sleep?”

“Like a fucking baby. You?”

“Yeah. You know, it’s so strange that people say, ‘slept like a baby.’ Babies sleep like shit,” she says, shaking her head.

I laugh. “Luka did. You remember that?”

“Do I remember that? I thought we were gonna have to commit my sister.” She shakes her head again. “I’ve never seen a human being so sleep-deprived in my life.”

I smile, staring up at the flat white ceiling, one arm above my head, the other folded across my chest. “She was so insistent on breastfeeding him. She’d barely let me touch him. All night, I swear to fuck, she was up every hour with that kid.”

“But she pulled through, didn’t she?” Ruthie says .

“She did,” I agree. “It’s the one thing you can say about you girls. You don’t give up easily.”

“ You definitely didn’t,” she says, shaking her head.

The smell of coffee and bacon wafts through the air. My stomach rumbles.

“I’m gonna go see if Luka is up.”

“I’ll see too,” she says, pushing out of bed.

The loose T-shirt she’s wearing has ridden up during the night, exposing her back—and I realize for the first time, it’s covered in ink.

“Wait a minute,” I say, voice going stern. “When the fuck did you get a back tattoo?”

She starts tugging her shirt down.

“Ruthie!”

“What?”

“Did Mariah know about this?”

“She did not. Why would she have to know about my tattoos? I’m an adult.”

I lower my voice dangerously. “Were you an adult when you got them?”

“Does that matter?” she snaps back, answering her own question.

“It fucking does. Your sister would’ve killed you. Let me see. ”

It’s not the tats, but we would’ve wanted to make sure her tattoo artist was legit.

She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

Then she turns, slow and unbothered, and lifts her shirt again—baring her back like she doesn’t know what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does.

Hell, maybe that’s the point.

And I freeze.

The gentle curve of her lower back catches the light—subtle muscle, smooth skin. The slope of her spine disappears into the waistband of those too-tight shorts, and I swear I can see her pulse flickering beneath the surface.

But it’s the ink that kills me.

I reach for her without thinking. My fingertips barely graze her, tracing the black lines carved into her skin.

The tattoos are fucking stunning.

Delicate, fierce, feminine—like her.

Wings unfurling from her shoulder blades, a dagger entwined in roses down her spine, thorns curling around words I can’t fully read from here.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathe out. “They’re fucking gorgeous.”

She hums, smug. “You gonna kiss them or just stare like a creep?”

I don’t answer. Because now all I can think about is where the ink ends.

“Do you have any others?” I ask, my voice rough .

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” She glances over her shoulder, her grin lazy and lethal.

“Yes, sir . In places you’re not allowed to see,” she says coyly.

And I want to kiss her.

I'm consumed with the desire to kiss her. I want to gather her in my arms, bury my fingers in her hair, and taste her lips. Quiet the fire. Every step I take brings me closer to her, and I want to take that next step more than anything.

But I don't. I can't. It's wrong.

What the hell is wrong with me?

She speaks softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Go check on Luka. I'll get dressed. It would be kind of awkward if we left the room at the same time, anyway, wouldn't it?"

"I don't give a fuck. Those are my brothers."

“I think… I’d feel better not planting suggestions.”

Fair enough.

I push out of bed and pull on a pair of gray sweats.

"Did someone put those there as a prank?" she says from the bed, eyeing them with a raised brow.

I glance at her, confused. "What?"

"Nothing," she says, rolling her eyes and heading to the bathroom. "Gray sweats are just the male equivalent of lingerie."

What the fuck is she talking about?

She disappears into the bathroom, taking care of whatever she needs to, and I head out to the main room .

Luka is sitting at the table with Polina—Rafail’s wife—and Zoya. I can hear Rafail’s voice coming from the other room, probably in the middle of a call.

“Papa!” Luka leaps up from his seat, promptly knocking his juice to the floor. It splashes across the tile. He looks horrified, frozen in the moment, but Polina and Zoya are on their feet in seconds.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Polina says gently. “Accidents happen. Come help me clean this up, Luka.”

He clumsily helps them mop up the mess while I walk over to the table, crouching down in front of him. I reach for him.

“She’s right,” I say softly. “Accidents happen. Come here, buddy. I missed you.”

He jumps into my arms, and I scoop him up. His little legs wrap around my waist, arms loop around my neck, and he rests his head against my shoulder.

“I missed you too. I had fun with Auntie Zoya, but I like my bed at home better. When can we go home, Papa?”

“Soon,” I promise him. “We’ll have some more fun today, okay?”

He lifts his head. “Is Auntie Ruthie coming?”

I freeze for half a second. I wish he hadn’t asked. I’d rather not bring attention to the fact that Ruthie and I are sharing a bed.

“She’s here, buddy.”

He grins. “I like it when she visits.”

“Morning. ”

Ruthie steps out just then.

Luka shimmies down my chest and launches himself at her.

“Hey!” I call out. “Don’t knock your auntie down.”

“Sorry,” he says, hugging her tightly. “I’m just excited to see you.”

She ruffles his hair. “Thank you. I’m not as sturdy as your daddy, and I think I’d fall over a lot easier than he would.”

“Let’s not test that theory,” I mutter.

She’s changed clothes—simple, clean—but she looks… stunning. She always wears black, nothing fitted or curvy. But now? She’s in a pair of jeans that hug her hips and a little white tank top. Beautiful.

I can't believe I almost kissed her. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Alright, we need to make some plans,” Rafail says, coming around the corner.

It’s unusual to see him all casual. He’s in jeans and a Henley—uncommon for him.

“Let’s talk details. Turns out, it was a false alarm.

We intercepted data about the Irish, but it didn’t pan out.

The threats didn’t come to fruition, and no one was hurt.

Just a whole lot of noise and nothing real behind it.

So after I get clearance today, we should be free to go home. ”

Free to go home.

Why does that make me feel so disappointed?