Page 39

RUTHIE

We’re in the evacuation van, and Luka’s asleep against my chest. He’s still convinced it was a game, just like we told him. Miraculously shielded from the terror and danger.

For now. Jesus. For now.

Vadka is beside me, his fingers brushing mine on the seat.

Neither of us speaks. We both know how close of a call that was, how dangerous that could’ve been.

Vadka leans in just enough that our shoulders touch.

We park the van, and it’s like we’re moving in slow motion. Everything happens quickly, but not fast enough.

Through the front door. We don’t have to ask Luka to be quiet because he knows intuitively. At first, he laces his fingers with mine, but his steps are slow, and timing is urgent. Wordlessly, Vadka swings him into his arms. My heart turns over in my chest .

I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until the front door locks behind us.

Click.

It’s the sound of something final, like a trigger pulled.

Vadka moves us through the house to the room we’ve been staying in, with his usual quiet precision—checking windows, arming the system, making sure no one followed.

His black shirt is smudged with soot and something darker.

Luka’s still in his arms, thumb in his mouth, his tiny fist curled in the fabric of Vadka’s collar.

He hasn’t let go since the ambush.

And neither have I.

We’re safe. For now.

I sit on the edge of the couch and press my fingers to my temples. The whole world tilts slightly to the left.

I hear the sound of Vadka’s boots. Then silence. Then?—

A soft rustle.

He’s wrapped Luka in a blanket and laid him down in his room next to ours. The boy doesn’t stir. Just breathes deeply and slowly, like he’s finally allowed to.

Vadka crouches in front of me, his knees wide and hands braced on either side of mine.

“You’re shaking.”

I open my mouth. Close it.

I don’t have anything brave to say. No bite. No barbed-wire wit. I told him I wanted to run, told him I wanted to hide, but now the future ahead of us—for many reasons—seems uncertain and scary.

I just whisper, “I don’t know how to come down.”

He nods like he gets it. Of course he does. He’s lived in war longer than I have.

“Then don’t,” he says. “Just sit. Let me.”

He stands and walks into the kitchen. I expect him to disappear into tactical planning, into his endless storm of protective rage.

But instead?—

He opens a cabinet, pulls out a box of pasta, and tosses it on the counter. Grabs a pan like it’s a regular Tuesday.

“You’re… making dinner?” I ask, voice still wrecked.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He gives me a look that would scare actual criminals. “Doesn’t matter. You need to eat, baby.”

Baby. Sigh. A bit of my invisible armor slides off me. I’m safe here. I’m with Vadka.

The water boils, and he works in silence. Measured, methodical. His sleeves are rolled up, arms dusted with flour by the time he’s chopping something green and pretending he’s not watching me through the corner of his eye.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” I murmur .

He shrugs. “Basic survival.”

“Isn’t that what takeout’s for?”

He turns his head just enough for me to see the smirk.

It’s barely there. But I feel it like sunlight on cold skin.

He plates it—two bowls, one smaller for Luka if he wakes—and brings it to me like it’s sacred.

I take one bite and have to close my eyes.

It’s not gourmet. Not even that well-seasoned.

But it’s warm and delicious, and I am hungry.

He sits beside me, legs spread wide, one hand resting on the couch behind me like a bracket. Not touching. Just close enough that I can lean closer if I want.

So I do.

I sink against him, cheek to his shoulder. His other hand finds my thigh and stays there. Steady. Warm.

We eat in silence.

I let myself breathe.

I don’t know how to tell him what I fear. We’ve already been through so much.

“Is it just us here?”

“Just us for now,” he says. I can tell he hates this, and it isn’t what he wanted. He’s not the type to sit back when he can take the situation in hand himself, but he has to.

My stomach twists .

Probably the adrenaline crash, I guess.

Or the cold.

Or the weight of everything. Or…

I swallow hard and try to push it down.

But it comes back, sour and sharp, right behind my teeth.

I lurch up and make it to the bathroom just in time.

The nausea hits like a wave—one hand on the counter, the other clutching the side of the toilet.

My whole body trembles.

When I’m done, I sit back on the floor and press my head to the cool tile. My heart’s racing, and my skin is clammy.

I hear the floorboards creak.

Vadka’s voice is low. “Ruthie?”

“I’m fine,” I rasp.

He doesn’t believe me. Of course not. But he doesn’t push, just brings me a glass of water and crouches beside me.

“Shit, I didn’t think my cooking was that bad.”

I give him a watery smile and sip.

He brushes the damp hair off my forehead and doesn’t speak.

Just waits.

His silence is more tender than words would be.

“Could be a stomach bug,” I mutter .

It’s not. I know it’s not. God.

“Could be.” But his voice is tight now. “Shit timing.” He’s watching me too closely.

My mind starts calculating… counting back.

“Is Zoya coming home?” I ask, trying to keep my voice nonchalant like I didn’t just vomit into the toilet and my period’s late.

“Yeah, Zoya and Rafail will be here soon.”

“I need—I need to make a call.”

“What’s going on? Ruthie?—”

“Please. Just—give me a second.”

He nods and steps back.

I grab my phone and slip into the room, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders. The screen glows in the dark.

Zoya .

She answers on the first ring.

“You okay?”

My voice is too quiet. Fragile.

“Can you maybe… Can you get me a… test?”

The silence on her end is immediate. Heavy.

Then—

“Pregnancy test?” she whispers.

I barely trust my voice. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be there in ten.”

I hang up.

My hands are shaking again.