Page 26

The house comes into view. It’s quiet. Not many cars are outside, and I’m relieved. The fewer the witnesses, the less scrutiny. The less I have to lie or explain what even I haven’t fully made peace with. I couldn’t defend what we did if someone asked. Not now. Not yet.

But who decides the timeline for mourning anyway? Who writes the rules on how long you have to stay in the dark before you're allowed to find some sliver of light again?

Is there ever a “right time” to fall in love with your dead sister’s husband?

Or maybe… maybe the only timeline that matters is ours.

The house is still.

“Zoya’s not home,” I say, a little disappointed. I could’ve used a good, old-fashioned girl talk. I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy. That this is okay. That love in the aftermath of death isn’t betrayal. That I’m still allowed to want.

“Who’s here?” I ask, glancing at the empty driveway. “Based on the cars.”

He snorts, amused. “What is this, the eighties? We don’t go by cars anymore.”

He pulls up an app on his phone, and I see glowing little dots dancing across the screen.

“Wait. Is that me?” I ask, eyes narrowing.

“Of course it is.”

“Who’s tracking me?”

“Anyone under protection gets tracked,” he says like it’s obvious.

I don’t know how I feel about that.

I watch him read the app.

“Rafail’s home. Matvei, Anissa.”

He squints at the screen. “No, wait. Zoya’s home too. Her car’s not here because someone probably borrowed it. Or maybe it’s in the shop. ”

I exhale. “Weird.”

“What?”

“Her location hasn’t updated in three hours. You don’t think that’s strange?”

He shrugs. “She could be cooking. You know how she is. Sometimes, she preps for days.”

“Yeah, but there’s no holiday coming up.”

And when we step into the house—Zoya is nowhere. Not in the kitchen. Not anywhere. But Vadka doesn’t pause. He carries me straight into the living room.

The Cottage.

The place is cozy in a way that always surprises me.

You’d expect something cold and severe—especially with all these stone-faced men storming through it—but no.

The Cottage breathes warmth. The kind that seeps into your bones.

Deep leather couches, worn from use. A fire that smells faintly like cedar.

Quilts that look like someone’s grandmother made them decades ago. It feels like home.

From the other room, I hear voices. Then the heavy, unmistakable footsteps of Rafail. His shadow crosses the doorway, and whatever he thinks about seeing Vadka carrying me, he doesn’t say out loud.

“What happened?”

My cheeks flush pink. Accidents happen, but I don’t like the immediate feeling that I did something wrong. “I think I sprained my ankle. Or did something equally stupid . ”

“It’s not stupid,” Vadka says, lowering his voice. “Don’t say that about yourself, Ruthie. Injuries happen. You’re human.”

Rafail snorts as Vadka slides me down onto the couch. “God, you should’ve seen what Rodion put me through when he was a kid. The boy lived in a walking cast for years.” He shakes his head. “We knew almost every nurse at the hospital on a first-name basis.”

I smile at the image.

“I’ll make a call. Get you looked at.” He looks up at Vadka. “Good timing, anyway. Matvei’s in the office.” They look soberly at each other but don’t offer details.

“Sir?” A tall, young man in a suit appears in the doorway, earpiece glinting under the light. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“Who?”

“Moroff,” the man responds, waiting.

Rafail checks his watch and curses. “Shit. I forgot I scheduled him today.”

“Should I bring him to your office?”

Rafail scowls. “No. Matvei’s got his whole setup in there. Bring him here for now. If we need privacy, we’ll move.”

A man walks into the room; he’s maybe twenty.

There's something about him that reminds me of a jackrabbit ready to bolt. His smile is practiced, stretched too tight. He offers his hand to both Vadka and Rafail, his lips stretched over his teeth like a predator. I watch his eyes shift from me to Vadka, then Rafail, before looking at the door. Yeah, that’s not creepy at all.

Vadka stands beside my chair like a goddamned sentinel, immovable, unreadable, lethal in stillness. His presence coils around me, and I sit up straighter without meaning to, my ankle throbbing.

Across from us, Rafail doesn’t even pretend to be impressed.

“Mr. Kopolov,” the kid starts, trying to sound respectful, like that’ll save him. “Thank you for your time. Good to see you.”

He starts prattling, nervous energy leaking through his fake charm. Small talk drips from his lips, pointless and trite. Rafail isn’t having it. He shakes his head, cuts through the bullshit. I watch, mesmerized. I haven’t really seen these guys in action before.

“Get to the point of why you’re here,” he snaps, voice like a blade across stone.

The kid blinks, surprised by the sharpness. And instead of adjusting his tone, he gets defensive—makes the mistake of raising his voice.

“I’m getting there,” he snaps. “If you hadn’t invaded the southern border and taken my family’s property?—”

Oops. Wrong move.

Vadka rises.

Slowly. Deliberately.

And when he does, the entire room shifts. It’s like gravity bends around him. And my stern but gentle giant is suddenly terrifying.

I love it.

“Did you just raise your voice to Mr. Kopolov?” His tone is quiet, deadly calm, and all the more menacing because of it. “You come into his house and speak to him like that? Do you have any fucking idea who you're talking to?”

He never needs to yell. That calm fury of his is more effective than any screaming threat. A shiver runs down my spine.

Shit . My sexy enforcer just made my thighs clench. Vadka leans in closer to the man, towering over him.

“You ever raise your fucking voice to Mr. Kopolov again,” he says, each word deliberate, “and that’ll be the last time you ever speak. Do you understand me?”

The kid goes pale and throws his hands up in the universal sign of surrender. “I meant no disrespect. I didn’t mean?—”

“What you meant and what you did are two very different things,” Vadka cuts in. He looks like a goddamn avenging angel. Dangerous, divine. I could listen to that tone of voice for hours… as long as it’s never directed at me.

“We heard you,” Rafail says, cool and composed. He tilts his head in my direction. “There’s a witness.”

“Ruthie?” he says. “Did you hear a tone of disrespect?”

I raise my eyebrows, surprised he’s asking me. Me . But he wants my opinion, and I’m not gonna sugarcoat it .

“I think a third grader would've caught that tone,” I say with a shrug. “So yeah. Loud and clear.”

The corner of Rafail’s mouth quirks up. He sits back in his chair, completely capable of defending himself but clearly comfortable letting Vadka do it for him.

This side of Vadka—protector, weapon, sharp-edged and unyielding—it’s not one I’ve seen often.

But I need to. Because it’s part of who he is.

Just like me working the bar and tending to my mother is part of who I am.

It’s all different pieces of the same puzzle.

“Stay out of this,” the guy snaps at me.

Vadka’s eyes grow deadly, his voice just above a growl. “And did you just speak disrespectfully to my woman?”

My woman.

His woman.

Oh god.

“There’s a nurse practitioner here to see you,” Rafail says quietly. “Friend of Polina’s. She’ll assess the damage.”

Vadka cracks his knuckles and takes the guy by the collar. “And anything else to say, Moroff?” he adds, tone final.

Moroff shakes his head quickly. “No. We’ll consider our options. Thank you for the visit.”

Rafail stands and opens the door while Vadka escorts him out.

I stare at Vadka’s retreating back just as a woman steps in. She’s tall, broad-shouldered, big-boned, with a presence that commands respect. But her voice is soft, almost gentle .

“Hello,” she says. “And what have we here?”

She doesn’t waste time with niceties. This woman’s been doing this a long time—straightforward, no bullshit, but with kindness beneath the efficiency.

“Definitely bruised and a mild sprain,” she says after examining me. “No signs of a break. I’m going to recommend you stay off your feet, ice, and elevate. Follow that, and you’ll be back to normal in a few days.”

She gives me a professional smile and starts packing up.

The door opens again, and Zoya hurries in—cheeks pink, slightly out of breath, like she ran the whole way.

“Hey, babe. Look at you— What happened?”

“You’re safe here,” Rafail tells me before he and Vadka leave the room.

Zoya settles in beside me as I tell her what happened, leaving out the details. All I say is that I tripped on a tree root.

“Oh, Ruthie.” She winces. “That sucks. Okay, do you have meds? Have you eaten anything?”

I shake my head. “Not since breakfast.”

It makes me think of Luka and the nanny… and the uneasy feeling in my chest returns. He didn’t seem troubled, but I am. It doesn’t feel right, leaving him like that.

“Something you wanna talk about, babe?” Zoya asks gently.

My throat tightens. I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say. I’m not the type to get all emotional, but here I am.

“I think I’m in love,” I whisper.