Emma
Later that night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling and listening to Rus pace and try to be quiet. In my head, I can picture exactly what he looks like: worn out, glasses pushed up into his pale hair, sleeves rolled up his arms. Chiseled features, serious, set.
Sleep refuses to come.
The suite is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic several floors below and the occasional murmur of Ruslan’s voice carrying from the office.
He’s been in there for hours. Every now and then I hear him through the partially closed door, low and steady, followed by long stretches of silence that somehow feel even more ominous.
I roll onto my side and pull the blankets higher. This entire situation feels insane when I stop moving long enough to think about it.
A month ago, I was in California trying, okay, failing, to rebuild my life after a string of bad decisions. Now I’m hiding in a luxury hotel in Colorado with a Bratva leader while tabloid photographers speculate about whether I’m carrying his child.
Normal people would probably have concerns. I certainly do.
The problem is that none of those concerns seem to center around Ruslan himself. And that realization bothers me.
Because I trust him.
Somewhere along the way, despite every warning bell that should have been ringing in my head, I started trusting him.
Not blindly or completely. I know exactly what he is, and I’ve seen enough of the world to understand that men like Rus don’t climb to the top of criminal organizations by being kind.
Yet when he promised to keep me safe, I believed him without hesitation.
Maybe that’s the crazy part.
Not the pregnancy or the revenge plot. Trusting a Bratva Pakhan more than I’ve trusted most ordinary people.
The mattress shifts slightly as I turn onto my back again, unable to get comfortable.
What is he doing? For weeks, revenge was all he talked about. Everything revolved around Andrei—destroying him, exposing him, getting Colorado back.
Coming home, though I know Ruslan will never phrase it like that or say those words out loud. Maybe that’s part of why I trust him; because I know that deep down, this isn’t about conquering a man who he claims is his rival, but about finding peace and quieting ghosts.
Now that the wedding is over and the speeches made, Andrei is still walking around Denver. Likely to be nominated for the exact spot he wants as a government official.
It doesn’t make sense.
I know Rus well enough now to understand that he doesn’t abandon goals halfway through, especially not something this personal.
Which means either he has changed his mind, or he’s planning something bigger.
Neither possibility helps me sleep.
A soft knock echoes faintly through the suite. I sit up, hand going to my hip as a reflex from days long past, back when I carried a Glock. Not necessary now, since I have a six-foot-two crime boss guarding the door.
Another knock.
No response, but Ruslan must be listening too. Waiting.
A few moments later, I hear footsteps walking away.
Frank.
It has to be.
Earlier this evening, I’d heard his voice through the door while Rus continued taking calls. Frank had sounded irritated, which wasn’t unusual, but there had been something else underneath it. Concern.
That fact makes me uneasy. Frank knows him better than anyone else. If Frank is worried, maybe I should be too.
I glance toward the bedroom door. A sliver of light glows beneath it.
Outside, a cool wind rattles faintly against the windows, carrying the first real hints of autumn across the city. The season is changing. My life is changing. Everything feels uncertain.
I rest a hand against my stomach. It hasn’t changed in any real way—I can’t be that far along. Weeks, maybe. But that doesn’t stop the unconscious gesture.
Is it protective? Questioning? Hopeful?
I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to.
I don’t know whether staying with Rus is brave or reckless. I don’t know if we’re running toward something or away from it.
What I do know is that somewhere beyond the bedroom door, a man who once swore he would burn Colorado to the ground is ignoring his oldest friend, making secret phone calls, and refusing to come to bed.
All for me, and the baby I haven’t even decided to keep yet.
Then the bedroom door opens so abruptly I jump. Rus steps into the room, tie gone, sleeves up to his elbows—just like I’d imagined. There’s a sharp focus in his pale eyes that sets my nerves on edge.
“Get dressed.”
“What?”
“We’re leaving.”
The words hit me like cold water.
“Leaving where?”
“Now, l’vyonak.”
That’s not an answer, and I open my mouth to argue, but Rus’ chin tips down and his eyes darken. There he is—the Bratva boss.
It’s almost 11:45 now, and thinking better of it, I throw back the blankets. Rus is already moving toward the closet, pulling out a coat for me before I can protest. Whatever has happened, he has clearly made up his mind.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we’re in the back of a black SUV heading into the darkness beyond the city. This isn’t one of Rus’ cars, which means he’s going out of his way not to be seen or tracked.
The city lights gradually disappear behind us.
At first, I try to be patient.
Then I try glaring.
Then I spend ten minutes convincing myself not to demand answers every thirty seconds. Rus remains infuriatingly calm through all of it.
Finally, when we’re well outside the city and surrounded by dark forests and winding mountain roads, I cross my arms and turn toward him.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
His gaze shifts from the window to me.
“We’re safe.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “No. It wasn’t.”
“Rus,” I groan, exhaustion suddenly setting in and making my temper shorten.
His expression softens slightly. “We’re going to my father’s cabin.”
The answer catches me completely off guard.
“Your father’s?”
He nods. Both of us are aware of the questions I have, but I’m not sure I should ask. Not sure I’ve earned the right. His father, who died decades ago. We’re going to his cabin?
The SUV rounds a curve, headlights illuminating towering pines.
“It’s a hunting property.”
“You own it?”
“Several, technically. But this one...” His voice trails off briefly. “This one was my father’s.”
I study him more carefully. The profile visible in the passing light seems tighter somehow. Older.
“Do you…? Have you been there?”
I’m not sure what I’m trying to ask, and Rus looks away, his jaw clenched.
“Not since I was a teenager. It was sold, then sold again. I bought it before I left Colorado.”
Something in my chest aches unexpectedly. Because I know what happened after that. He was pushed out, pushed away, from everything he’d ever known. The family he’d had left.
The silence that follows feels heavy.
Eventually, he looks back toward the darkness outside.
“I pay someone to maintain it.”
I don’t press further. Some memories deserve respect and space.
* * *
Two hours later, the SUV turns onto a narrow gravel road. The forest seems endless, half-visible thanks to the moon hidden behind the pines.
Trees surround us on every side, their branches whispering softly in the night breeze. When the cabin finally appears, relief floods through me so quickly that I nearly laugh.
It’s beautiful.
Warm golden light spills from the windows. Smoke curls from a stone chimney. The structure is built from dark timber and weathered stone, looking more like something from a postcard than a hideout.
A man in his sixties waits on the porch. The caretaker, apparently.
He greets Rus warmly enough to suggest they’ve known each other for years, though there’s a hint of sadness in his smile as he looks at him.
“Good to see you home, son.”
Home.
The word hangs in the air. Rus simply nods.
The caretaker escorts us inside. The moment I cross the threshold, some of the tension leaves my body.
The cabin smells faintly of cedar, wood smoke, and coffee. Thick rugs cover the floor. Old photographs sit atop a mantel, and comfortable furniture fills the room instead of the polished luxury I’ve come to associate with Rus. It’s only three rooms, but it’s exactly what I need all of a sudden.
I glance toward Rus.
For the first time all night, his shoulders seem slightly less rigid. And somehow, seeing that calms me more than the cabin itself.
The caretaker leaves shortly after showing us around, promising that there is enough food stocked for weeks and that the generator has been serviced recently. By the time the front door closes behind him, I already feel more relaxed than I have in days.
Maybe weeks.
The cabin is quiet in a way the hotel never was. No elevators, no reporters lurking outside. No politicians. No tabloid photographers.
Just the soft crackle of wood settling in the stove.
I find Rus in the living room kneeling beside the cast-iron woodstove.
Firelight dances across his face as he adjusts a log with practiced movements, as if this is something he does every day, though I don’t remember seeing a stove in the Santa Barbara house.
For a man who wears custom suits and owns private jets, he looks surprisingly natural here.
Like he belongs.
“Thank you.” The words leave my mouth before I can overthink them.
He glances over his shoulder.
“For what?”
“For getting us out of there.”
“You’re welcome.” His response is simple: his hands resting on his knees as he stares into the flames, lost in thought.
I move toward one of the oversized armchairs near the fire while he closes the stove door. Warm orange light fills the room, pushing back the darkness gathering beyond the windows.
For a while, neither of us speaks. Then the question I’ve been carrying for days finally slips out.
“Why haven’t you done anything?”
Rus looks up. “About what?”
I gesture vaguely. “Andrei.”
His expression immediately hardens.
There it is.
The anger.
The hatred.
The thing that brought him back to Colorado in the first place.
I pull my knees closer to my chest. “Wasn’t that the whole point?”
For several seconds he doesn’t say anything, just drops into the chair a few feet away. Then he leans back and drags a hand across his jaw.
“My original plan was simple.” The words sound tired. “I was going to expose him.”
“Expose what?”
His pale eyes meet mine. “I wasn’t sure at first. I knew if I dug around enough, something would come up. Andrei has always been conniving—ever since we were kids. But then he took you. And I realized.”
His gaze drops to my wrists. I cross my arms, hiding them, putting it all together. “You were going to tell them about…”
“The women.”
My stomach drops. The women. Not just me.
“Does that mean…?”
“Yes. I had someone back in California start looking for very specific details. Enough people talk,” he murmurs. “Enough rumors exist. It wasn’t hard to find. In his early twenties, two women were dropped off at shelters, only weeks apart. One had bruised ribs. The other lost teeth.”
My eyes well with tears, and a hand goes to my mouth. I can’t help it—seeing Victoria was one thing. But knowing there were others before me. That I wasn’t the first.
“Oh.”
“It wouldn’t be hard to prove what he is.”
“And now?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. “Why didn’t you…?”
The thought crosses my mind that it might’ve been an issue of timing. Maybe he was going to expose Andrei that very day I disappeared and came back with the bag and the tests.
Rus looks away. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“How many politicians get away with that kind of thing?” he asks, anger and disgust edging the quiet words. “It’s too easy for people to overlook the past. Now I may have to go for the throat.”
The words settle heavily in the room. I don’t know exactly what they mean, but a shiver goes up my spine.
Whatever he’s considering now is worse. Much worse.
“Then what’s stopping you?”
He closes his eyes briefly. And for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks reluctant.
“This situation—what I could use against him—it affects more than Andrei.”
Something in his tone makes me sit up straighter.
“What do you mean?”
Rus exhales slowly. The firelight flickers across his face. “If I do this the way I’m considering, every news outlet in the country will be involved. There are parts of society, of our system, that will be affected. Investigated.”
A knot forms in my stomach.
“The story won’t stay in Colorado.”
His gaze finds mine again.
“And Kate gets dragged into it.”
Everything inside me goes still.
Kate. Kate?
I stare at him, trying to connect the dots. Trying to understand how a revenge plot against a politician somehow involves the little girl who cried when we left California.
Rus doesn’t elaborate. He just keeps staring into the fire, a crease between his brows, glasses reflecting the flames.
I know I should ask more questions. I should figure out how Kate fits into this. Why? Because my decision about whether to keep this child, our child, could hinge on just how far Ruslan is willing to go and who he is willing to destroy.
Would he really put a pre-teen girl in the path of destruction, all for revenge?
There has to be more to it, more than he’s telling me right now.
That’s what I tell myself over and over as the warmth of the fire soaks into my bones and finally makes me drowsy.
There has to be more.
He can’t really be a monster.
Can he?