Page 33

RUTHIE

“Agreed.” I realize that might’ve sounded like I was agreeing to everything. “To the surveillance sweep,” I clarify.

He only growls at me, low and unnerving, as he gestures for us to head out.

After the surveillance sweep, the bar feels hollow. No music. No crowd.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit.

“Do what?”

“Live on the edge, watching.”

He walks up behind me.

Doesn’t touch.

Just breathes.

“No one will hurt you,” he says. “Not while I’m breathing.”

“But what if you stop breathing, Vadka?” I turn to face him. “What then?”

It feels like we don’t have the promise of tomorrow, that we can’t hold onto any future together, and all we have is right here, right now.

“Ruthie,” he whispers, shaking his head.

No build-up.

No sweetness.

Just collision.

His mouth crashes to mine. Teeth, tongue, heat. My shirt tears—literally rips under his fingers. I claw at his belt. His hands are rough, greedy, sliding up under my bra, down my spine, grabbing like he needs to feel me to believe I’m still here.

We stumble back into the dark corner behind the bar. No time. No care.

I shove bottles off the counter. They crash to the floor. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, slams me against the wood, and kisses me so hard it bruises.

“You want this?” he grits.

“ Always .”

He grinds against me, and I’m already soaked, already shaking.

“This isn’t gentle.”

“Good,” I pant. “I don’t want gentle. I want real. ”

He groans. Fingers on zippers, fabric aside, skin on skin, and I groan.

Then he’s inside me.

No ceremony. No softness. Just need.

It’s brutal. It’s broken. It’s two people trying to survive each other.

I meet him thrust for thrust. Bite his shoulder, dig my nails into his back like I’m marking him.

We don’t whisper promises.

We don’t say I love you.

We just burn.

And when I come, it’s not a moan—it’s a sob. It rips out of me, loud and raw and real.

He follows seconds later, forehead against mine, breath shattered.

We stay there. Tangled. Silent.

Then he pulls away.

And I know.

We’re not okay.

I try to fix my shirt, but it’s ruined. Doesn’t matter. I find my coat, my fingers numb.

He doesn’t speak .

Neither do I.

He wordlessly holds my head against his shoulder, running his hand down the length of my back.

My eyes land on the calendar behind him, pinned to the wall under advertisements, and a cold thread of fear washes through me.

Oh no.

It can’t be… can it?