Page 31

RUTHIE

The first time I walk back into the Wolf and Moon after the slap, my skin still feels raw.

Not from her. Not really.

From him.

From the way he lifted me like I was something precious and fragile—something that needed saving. Like I mattered. Like he cared.

Which is fucking dangerous. Caring is a liability in our world, and I know better.

Still, I throw myself into the chaos behind the bar like it’s armor. Glasses clink. Orders barked. Neon haze and too-loud bass. The old rhythm returns, but it doesn’t feel the same. Something under my skin itches now… like he’s watching.

And he is .

Vadka’s shadow is stitched into every corner. I don’t even have to turn. I feel him in the way the hair on the back of my neck stands when the door opens. In the slight shift of weight when a man too dangerous to be ignored enters a room.

He watches me.

Always.

From across the floor. From the corner booth where he pretends he’s not guarding me. Silent sentinel in a black shirt and darker eyes, tracking my every move. Not interfering. Just… there.

For days, that’s all it is.

Work. Watch. Avoid.

He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t speak. Just sends texts at night that haunt my phone and keep me up late.

Vadka

You look tired tonight. Eat something.

The Irish haven’t made a move. Doesn’t mean they’re not planning.

I don’t like the bartender who wears the gold chain. He watches your ass too long.

I don’t respond to most. Sometimes I send a photo of the shitty food I finally ate. Once, a middle finger emoji when he got too protective.

But the truth?

I read every one over and over and over again .

And twice, I go to his place. No sex. His eyes never drop from mine. His shoulders tighten like he’s holding himself back from touching me. Like the space between us is an edge he doesn’t dare cross.

Until he does.

It’s a Thursday night when the bar starts to feel too small.

The Irish have been quiet for too long. Everyone's tense… waiting for something to explode. I wipe down the counter harder than I need to, and the glass nearly slips out of my hand.

Then I feel it.

That shift in the air. Like lightning about to strike.

I look up.

He’s here.

Vadka moves through the bar with purpose.

Uh-oh. Eyes locked on mine. Dressed in black. No jacket. Sleeves rolled up to his forearms, veins tight under skin. That jaw’s clenched and hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it too long, thinking too much.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod.

Just stalks.

Straight to the end of the bar. No words.

I try to speak. I do.

“You weren’t here tonight. Just your lackeys,” I say, my voice too sharp, too deflective.

His eyes narrow on me as his gaze drags over me. “Been super fucking busy hunting,” he growls. “Tracking.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but I know it isn’t animals he’s hunting or tracking.“You wore the red shirt.” His voice is clipped.

I look down. Yeah. I did. Tight. Cropped. Ridiculous. I don’t know why I put it on.

Yes, I do.

His eyes go darker. “Come with me.”

“Bar’s busy,” I snap.

“You’re not the only one here,” he says without looking. “They’ll cover.”

Like he planned this. Like he knew.

My heart starts to hammer. “Vadka?—”

But he’s already moving. Not asking.

Taking.

I hesitate for half a breath.

Then I follow.

The back hallway smells like spilled beer and cheap cleanser. The storage closet is open, dim light spilling from above. I barely step inside before the door slams shut behind me—and then his mouth is on mine.

There’s no preamble. No pretense. Just need . I make a sound low in my throat, half moan, half plea, when his hands find my waist. My ribs. My throat. Rough but reverent, like he’s been starving, and I’m the only thing that’ll keep him alive.

I gasp, and he drinks it in. My skin prickles with awareness, and my heart thumps madly in my chest.

“Two fucking weeks,” he growls against my mouth. “Two weeks pretending we’re not circling each other like wolves. Two fucking weeks pretending you don’t want to be with me.”

I dig my fingers into his chest. “I needed some time, some distance. It was too much too soon,” I say, but even as I protest, it sounds like a silly, pathetic protest.

He groans, low and feral, and spins me to the wall. His thigh presses between mine, pinning me. His mouth on my neck now, teeth scraping, followed by tongue soothing.

“You want me to stop?” he whispers against my skin. “Too much, too soon?”

“Are you mocking me?”

His hands tighten on my ass, punishing. “I asked you a question. Stop?”

I shake my head. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

His hand slips under my shirt, palm dragging up my stomach. Slow. Deliberate. Testing.

“You’re fire,” he mutters. “But I’ll take the burn.”

His mouth is everywhere—my collarbone, the line of my jaw, the edge of my bra. He pulls my shirt up with one hand and cups me with the other, thumb dragging over my nipple until I’m gasping. Someone could come in and see us, but the knowledge that it’s possible only drives my need further.

Maybe I’ll get fired. Maybe I won’t.

I grab his belt, yanking him closer. “I’ve wanted this,” I pant. “Since the first time you told me no.”

His laugh is low, wicked. “You love pushing me.”

“Maybe I like feeling the resistance.”

He growls, and it’s a sound that coils heat low in my belly. Then his hand is sliding down, fingers under my waistband. No teasing now. Just claiming.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he breathes out, stunned. “ Fuck .”

“Of course I’m wet,” I hiss. “You’re Vadka .”

Oh god, I said that out loud?

That undoes him.

He pushes my panties aside and slips two fingers in, dragging a gasp out of me like it’s oxygen. His other hand braces beside my head, muscles flexed, holding himself back.

“You like this?” he murmurs.

“Yes—”

“ Say it. ”

“ No. ”

His palm slaps against my ass so hard I’m up on my toes, hissing in breath and half begging for more. He presses the heel of his hand to my pussy, and I whimper. Circling, he holds his hand right there as pressure and need mount .

“Tell me you like it.”

“I like when you— fuck —control me.”

He slides his fingers into my panties again and curls them low inside me. I nearly scream.

“You trust me,” he says. Not a question. A fact, and a reverent one.

I nod wildly. “Yes. Yes, dammit, I do.”

He kisses me again, hard and filthy, and I come undone in his hand, pulsing around him while he whispers against my skin.

“ Mine. ”

When I slump, he catches me.

When I breathe, it’s with him.

And when I finally open my eyes, he’s watching me like I just gave him something precious.

His thumb brushes my cheek. Gentle. Terrifying.

“You’re mine , Ruthie.”

I should argue. Should bite. Should fight back.

But instead—I nod.

Because maybe I already was.

Vadka’s phone dings with a text. He shows me the screen.

Matvei

Come to the house. It’s urgent. Bring Ruthie