Page 28

RUTHIE

Maybe I ran. I knew Vadka would be pissed that I left without talking to him, but I don’t want him to feel responsible for me. Why does that make me so damn uncomfortable?

I call my mother to check in on her, or maybe it’s to remind myself that I have other responsibilities, that I don’t need someone to help me shoulder my burdens.

But my mom is taking a nap, and they tell me she’s stable.

So I go straight to the bar, a little early for my shift. Predictable, maybe. Stupid. But I need to clear my head because I’m starting to feel like I need Vadka like I need air, and that freaks me out.

He’s not gonna be happy. But after I talked to Zoya, I needed to leave .

Zoya—kind, ever-pragmatic Zoya—told me the truth. About losing her parents. About feeling broken and soft and unsure. And she looked me in the eye like she saw right through me. “You think love is supposed to look tidy after loss? After death?”

I didn’t respond, because I didn’t have an answer.

Do I?

“He’s not the same man he was before,” she said gently. “He loves Luka. I believe that with my whole heart. And I do think he loves you, but I don’t think that’s new, Ruthie. He’s loved you for years.”

It feels dismissive and hurtful, even though I know sweet Zoya wouldn’t hurt a flea. What she’s doing is trying to make sure I don’t get hurt.

“Listen, Ruthie,” she said softly. “I’m just not sure he can love you in the way you need. Or deserve. You two are… very different people.”

God, she’s so right.

“I’m not saying it’s wrong,” she added quickly.

“Don’t mistake me. I think, in a lot of ways, it’s very right, and my romance-loving heart wants nothing more than to see the two of you together.

But I don’t want you to make a decision in the heat of grief or lust or guilt.

Not when it could hurt you. Because if it goes wrong between you and Vadka, it’s not just you who gets hurt. Luka does too.”

I thought about that, really thought about it. I can’t just show up at their house, day after day, and then… not come anymore if something happens between Vadka and me. Ch ildren need consistency, routine, structure. I’m not one to offer that.

She sighed. “He’s your connection to your sister, and that might color your judgment. I don’t mean that cruelly…”

But I get it. I get it so clearly that it aches. Can I let this… infatuation? Lust? Love? Whatever it is—can I let it cloud my relationship with my nephew? With Mariah’s son?

It would be a grave, unforgivable mistake.

And yeah, Zoya’s right—we’re different. On paper, maybe even wrong for each other. But when people say I don’t belong in the Kopolov Bratva… why does that hurt?

Maybe because here—here with him—I feel close to her. Maybe because part of me believes she’d want me to have this… if this is something real.

So I went to work. No warning. No long goodbye. Zoya said they could’ve talked for hours, and I didn’t have that kind of time to waste.

I strapped on the walking boot they gave me, had my ankle wrapped, took my over-the-counter meds, and got my ass behind the wheel. All I wanted was the comfort of routine. Familiar faces. The rhythm of my world.

But none of it helps. Everything reminds me of him. I want security and comfort, and I have none of it.

I double-checked security like I always do, but this time, I had three uniformed men with me. I don’t usually need that. But today? I do.

Seeing the regulars helps .

Faces light up at the sight of me, their warmth, their familiarity.

It's easy to smile, to exchange pleasantries, to be part of the laughter that fills the room. The chatter is light, the air thick with laughter. I can pretend to be okay, pretend I’m fine as I sip my drink, my smile perfectly placed.

But the longer I stand here, the more my ankle protests. It started as a dull throb, just a mild annoyance, but now it's a sharp pain, biting through my every step. I wince, trying to hide it, trying to focus on the faces around me, but the pain is insistent, crawling up my leg with each movement.

“Ruthie, you okay?” The voice is familiar, soft, a friend, and I nod, forcing a smile. But the ache is there, pulling at my attention, twisting in my gut.

"Yeah, just tired," I lie, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying to alleviate the pressure on my ankle. "It’s been a long day."

"Do you need a seat?" she asks, concern edging her tone. She’s seen me like this before when the exhaustion starts to show but tonight is different. The pain is worse than usual, sharp and relentless.

“No, I’m fine.” I try to wave it off, but the moment the words leave my mouth, my ankle screams in protest.

I suck in a breath, trying not to make a scene.

A couple of hours pass, but the ache is only growing. The room feels smaller with each minute, the laughter and warmth now distant as the throb in my ankle grows more unbearable.

By the end of the night, my body is screaming for relief. The nausea from the pain crawls up my throat, and my exhaustion weighs heavily on me. I glance around at the faces, the smiles, but they feel like they’re from a world I no longer want to be part of.

I can’t go back to that empty, hollow apartment. It’s quiet there—too quiet. Cold, with nothing to fill it—just walls that feel like they’re closing in on me. No laughter. No warmth. Just silence.

I start to gather my things, my energy for small talk completely drained. I hear someone mention driving me home, but I quickly shake my head. “I’m good,” I say, trying to force some semblance of normalcy into my voice. “I just need to get home.”

But I don't want to go to my apartment.

I want his home. I want the sounds of Luka’s laughter echoing in the halls, filling every room with a kind of warmth I haven’t felt in so long.

His joy is unguarded, pure. It’s the kind of noise that brings life to a space and makes it feel full.

His tiny hands clapping, his giggles bubbling up like a song, even when he's getting into trouble. That chaos, that beautiful mess… it’s everything I want in my life right now.

But more than anything, I want him.

I want Vadka .

The thought of him, of his presence, settles like a weight in my chest. He’s not just a man; he’s stability.

He’s the kind of person who makes everything feel like it’s okay, like it’s safe.

I think about the way he moves in a room—quiet, controlled, yet there’s an intensity to him that makes it hard to ignore.

But it’s not just his strength that calls to me.

It’s the moments when he’s vulnerable, when the sharp edges soften, even just for a second.

When he looks at me, and there’s something in his eyes that’s raw and unspoken.

I miss him.

I don’t realize I’ve spoken out loud until my friend’s voice breaks the silence. “You sure you don’t want a ride?”

“No,” I mutter, louder than I meant. “I’m fine. Really.” But it’s a lie. It’s always a lie.

I can’t shake the ache in my chest—the deep, almost aching desire to be with him. To be in his presence again.

I don’t want to be alone tonight. Not in my apartment. Not with this pain.

“I’ll be okay,” I force out, offering another weak smile before I turn, my steps slow and deliberate, but with each one, the weight of my wanting for him grows heavier. I want Vadka’s home, I want Luka’s laughter, and above all, I want him .

But the road home feels too long tonight.

Pulling out my phone, I see texts from Vadka—predictably pissed, sharp and possessive. I don’t answer texts at work, so I respond as I make my way out.

I had to work. You were busy. You knew I had to go in. Relax.

Vadka

If you knew what the doctor told me about being on your feet, you wouldn’t be telling me to relax .

He probably wanted to tack on young lady at the end. Stern. Overbearing. Bossy.

You told me I was safe, Vadka. You told me I had security with me. And you’d protect me too.

Vadka

So?

So I’m fine.

Vadka

Good. And you’re coming home with me.

I hear someone in front of me clearing his throat, and when I look up, I nearly drop my phone.

I swallow hard. “Yes. I’ll come back to your place tonight.”

But we’re not having sex. I don’t say that part out loud. Not because I don’t want to, but because it always complicates things, and I don’t want to fuck this up.

When I hobble toward the door, he picks me up like it’s his right. Like the ground never deserved me to begin with.

No words. Just arms—hard, possessive, final. I try to squirm, but it’s useless. He’s all muscle and control, and I’m… not.

“Vadka—”

“Shh.”

He brings me home.

“No more, Ruthie. No more running,” he says when he cuts the engine .

“Do I look like I can run with this ridiculous boot strapped to me?”

“You know what I mean.”

Warmth settles into my chest at the sight of the neatly trimmed hedges my sister picked out and the rows of bright yellow and pink pansies.

“I’m carrying you in.”

“I get the feeling that you like carrying me,” I say, almost scoffing, trying to play it all off as a joke, when he sobers.

“I do like carrying you. Feels like carrying a doll…” He smirks. “That could bite me if she wanted to.”

“I could arrange that,” I mutter. He winks at me, and it sends my pulse racing straight between my thighs before he sets me on the edge of a table like I’m made of glass, like he’s afraid something might already be broken.

Then he… kneels.

I freeze. Not because I’m scared—though maybe I should be—but because Vadka doesn’t kneel for anyone. But he does for me.

He peels my boot off with surgical precision, fingers methodical, terrifyingly gentle. I’m reminded of him cradling his son in his big, capable hands.

Those hands could crush bone. They probably have .

But not mine.

I hiss when the pressure hits the worst of the swelling.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. ”

I don’t respond, and he blows out a breath. His jaw ticks.