Page 25

Footsteps, a rustle of fabric, and then he’s there, kneeling next to me like he was always going to end up here, beside me, holding space for memories and ghosts and pain.

I don’t want to look up… I don’t want to see his face right now. Not when I’m like this, weak. Caught, like I was trespassing when visiting my own sister’s grave.

But the second I put weight on my ankle, pain lances through it like a blade. I lose my footing and stumble toward the ground again when his steady hand catches my elbow.

“I tripped. On the stupid tree root,” I whisper, ashamed and hurting, words tumbling from my lips. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“Did you follow me?” Even though his tone is curious and not accusatory, I feel the need to defend myself.

“ No ! ”

I shake my head so hard it makes me dizzy. “No, I just— I just came to see my sister. I wanted to… talk to her.”

It’s funny how different things trigger grief. A smell, a memory, the realization that she won’t pick up when you dial her number.

Knowing you’re in pain and you don’t have your big sister to make it better like you used to.

My voice wobbles. I try to hold back, try to hold on, but I can’t.

I break. I shatter. The tears come fast, unrelenting, as I buckle under the weight of everything I’m not saying out loud.

I can’t talk to her. I can’t see her. Neither can he. The tears fall with no warning. Fast. Hot. Angry.

I hate this.

I hate that she’s gone.

I hate that I feel so bereft and alone, like I’m flailing in a world of unknowns, and my only anchor has vanished.

And I hate that the only solid, real thing in a world of uncertainty is… him.

“I’m sorry,” I sob, clutching my side. “I just needed to talk to her.”

At first, he doesn’t reach for me. His breath is steady as I shudder, sobbing. But I can feel his restraint, the way it’s coiled like a leash pulled taut.

He’s near me, his eyes searching mine, his hand hovering as if ready to catch me if I stumble. His voice is warm and compassionate, making my tears fall harder. I’m gulping for air, swiping at my eyes, when he leans in and cups my face.

“And what would you tell her, baby? What do you need to talk about that was so urgent you came here? Tell me.”

I sniff and swallow, unable to look away. “You know exactly what I need to tell her.”

His eyes search mine, hopeful and pained. “I want to hear you say it.”

I blow out a breath. My voice wobbles. “I want to tell her that I’m falling in love with her husband. And I’m terrified he doesn’t feel the same way I do. I want to tell her that I’m sorry, that I?—”

And then his mouth is on mine—urgent, desperate. And we’re both crying, tears mixing with the kiss, his hands tangled in my hair. “I know,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice cracked open like mine. “I know, baby.”

No one’s ever called me that before him, and I love it. I love it so much.

The kiss is brief, healing, as we both pull away and meet each other’s eyes.

“You don’t have to explain anything, Ruthie,” he whispers.

I’ll never forget seeing him so strong, so powerful, brought to his knees by grief. It’s beautiful in the most devastating way. I reach up to wipe his tears, and he brushes my hair gently from my face. “Let me see your ankle,” he says softly.

It’s something tangible. Something real. He bends down, careful, his touch gentle as he cradles my ankle in his hands. I wince—god, it hurts like a motherfucker .

“Bruised. Sprained at least,” he mutters, examining it closely. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you definitely pulled something. You won’t be able to walk on this.”

I sigh. “Great. How am I supposed to work?”

“We’ll get you a boot, maybe crutches. Honestly, it’d be better if you didn’t work at all.”

“It’d be better if I hadn’t sprained my ankle,” I say, sighing.

He sighs too. “Yeah. I know. Shit, baby.”

God, I love the way he says that. Love the sound of his voice. Love everything about him.

“You sure you didn’t come here to spy on me?” he asks, brow raised.

I shake my head, a ghost of a smile on my lips. “We just had the same brilliant, tragic idea at the same time.”

Neither of us says what we’re both thinking—that last night’s mess, the tangle of grief and comfort and need, pushed us here. Maybe grief does that. Maybe it drives you into the arms of the only person who understands.

I wonder if I can trust Zoya with this. That woman’s a vault, steel-reinforced.

“It looks beautiful,” I whisper, my voice catching as I look at the grave. “You’ve done a great job keeping it up.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “All right. Let’s figure this out. How did you get here?”

“I drove.”

“I’ve got my bike,” he says, frowning. “That’s not a good idea for you. You won’t be able to brace yourself with that ankle. You should have it elevated. I’ll drive your car, and I’ll have one of my guys come pick up the bike.”

“I thought you didn’t trust anyone to ride your bike.”

He hesitates. “I don’t. But your safety’s more important.”

I press my hand to my chest, feeling the flutter there. “Aw. Are you being sweet right now? Vadka, is that you?”

“Don’t be a brat,” he growls, and it’s that voice—the one that guarantees I’ll absolutely keep being a brat, just to make him say it again.

Truth be told, I don’t like needing help. I hate being dependent. I pride myself on my strength. This whole thing sucks.

“Let’s get you in the car. Get you looked at.”

“I hate going to the doctor,” I whine, fully aware that I sound like a child. I pout. “Doesn’t Rafail have someone?”

“Yeah,” he says with a smirk, eyebrows lifting. “But you’re not one of the Bratva, remember? I believe you were the one who reminded me of that.”

Oh, fuck my life. “I think I’m fine,” I try to argue, attempting to get up.

“Ruthie.”

He doesn’t even let me. He just lifts me—bodily—and starts carrying me. “We’ll let the doctor decide whether or not you’re fine.”

“Who asked you?” I grumble.

He leans in, his voice a whisper against my ear. “I know you hate being told what to do, Ruthie,” he says, low and lethal. “But you do like getting your ass spanked. And you, little brat, are pushing every one of my goddamn buttons. Keep going. See what happens.”

I would turn away from him, but where the hell would I even go? One way, I’m staring into those beautiful eyes. The other, I’m pressed against that absolutely sinful chest. Not exactly a bad place to be.

At least we’re not talking about my dead sister anymore , I think bitterly. Which—yeah, I know—is a fucked-up thing to think. So sue me.

“Where’d you park?” he asks, not even winded. How? How is he not even breathing hard? He’s carrying an entire human. I get winded carrying a gallon of milk.

“Around the corner.”

We walk in silence, and now that my foot is dangling freely, the pain intensifies. It burns. Tears well in my eyes, and I don’t think it’s just the ankle anymore. Everything hurts. This whole thing hurts.

“You all right?” he asks, his voice so gentle it makes my throat ache. When we were younger, I didn’t know this softer side of him, but being a dad has changed things.

“It hurts a lot,” I whisper, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.”

“We talked about this, Ruthie,” he says, his tone chiding.

“About what?”

“About apologizing for things that don’t even deserve an apology.

You don’t get to say sorry for being sad, for visiting your sister’s grave.

Or for twisting your ankle while doing it.

You should know by now—I’m not ashamed of crying.

And you shouldn’t be either. People cry.

It’s natural. It’s survival. It’s release. ”

“Is that what your brothers think?”

He scoffs, lips curling like the thought itself is offensive. “Who gives a fuck what my brothers think?” He might, but he won’t admit that to me. And I don’t ask again. I just nod because even if it’s a little contradictory, there’s truth buried in it.

And for one breathless, fragile moment, his forehead presses to mine. The kind of moment that would dissolve if we spoke too loudly, too fast. I feel his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers—racing, alive, real. It’s steady and wild, like a storm that’s chosen me as its eye.

“Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours,” he says low, his voice like gravel and velvet. “I’m taking you back to the Kopolovs. We’ll get your ankle looked at. But right now, it’s just me and you, Ruthie. No distractions. What are you thinking?”

I pause, then whisper, “I heard what you said to Mariah.”

His body stills.

“Do you regret what we did?” My voice shakes a little. “Because I already feel like a regret. I was an accident. My mother didn’t want me. And now…”

His grip tightens around me, and his eyes bore into mine.

“I have no regrets, Ruthie. Not one. I’d do it all again. Over. And over. And over. Every single damn night. ”

It has got to be wrong to be turned on in a cemetery. People fear getting struck by lightning if they’re heathens in a church, but I’m practically looking over my shoulder for how desperately I want him.

I believe him. I don’t need to ask if he loves me—I know he does. And I love him too. Recklessly. Messily. Desperately.

But still… there’s a piece of me that needs to be sure I’m not just reacting to grief. That he’s not just some kind of twisted solace. He deserves more than being a rebound. And I deserve more than being a mistake.

We make it to my car, and he slides me into the passenger seat. I don’t even protest when he does my buckle and closes the door.

The drive to the Kopolov house is quiet, suspended in a strange kind of peace.

At some point, his large hand finds my leg—resting, not roaming—and he strokes my kneecap with slow, steady fingers.

It’s not sexual, not this time. It doesn’t spark lust. But something warm coils in my chest anyway.

I like his hand there. It makes me feel… safe. Like I belong.