38. Emma
Emma
The wind picked up sometime after midnight, slipping through the towering pines with a low, mournful whistle that blends with the occasional creak of timber settling against the cold. I stayed up later than Frank and heard him muttering in annoyance from under an old quilt.
Sleep didn’t come easily, and I’m not sure why. Anxiety? Hormones? I can’t place it; I roll over beneath the sheets, only half awake, and reach instinctively toward the empty side of the bed before remembering Rus isn’t here.
My heart sinks all over again.
Go back to sleep.
Then I hear a soft metallic click.
Then another.
Someone is trying the bedroom door.
Every nerve in my body snaps awake, and I sit up, pull my feet up under the chilly sheets, and stare into the dark room. There’s a half-moon outside and, if I remember correctly, a decorative red oil lamp hanging from a nail only a few feet away.
If I reach carefully…
The click comes again, with a jostle.
For one frozen second I listen, holding my breath as the handle turns slowly. Frank should have heard it. He sleeps lightly, and after Victoria’s visit he’d started checking every window before bed. If someone has made it past him...
The thought never finishes.
The door eases inward.
Adrenaline floods my veins before fear can, and I don’t think—training takes over.
I throw the blankets aside and launch myself out of bed, crossing the room in three quick strides.
My shoulder drives into the figure’s chest, knocking him backward just enough for me to hook an arm beneath his and reach for his wrist. It has to be a male because they easily have a foot on me, not to mention breadth.
The old FBI instructor’s voice echoes in my mind.
Control the weapon.
Control the suspect.
I twist hard, aiming to pin his arm behind his back. Instead, the man pivots effortlessly.
The movement is smooth, practiced, almost familiar, and before I can recover, my wrist is gently redirected. My momentum carries me forward until my back meets a solid chest, one powerful arm locking carefully around my waist while the other catches my hands before I can strike again.
I struggle anyway. An elbow to the nose, a heel to the foot—anything to get away.
“Emma.” The voice is low and deeply familiar.
I freeze.
“It’s me.”
Everything inside me stops at once.
Rus.
He shifts his grip immediately, no longer restraining me so much as steadying me as my knees threaten to give out.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple as I spin in his arms. “I should’ve waited until morning to see you.”
I’ve turned so quickly I nearly lose my balance, but his hand steadies my lower back while the other goes to my neck, then my chin—tipping my face carefully as he takes me in.
The moonlight paints silver across his face and gleams in his pale hair. If I’d gone slower even by a few seconds, I probably would’ve recognized those features.
His dark coat is dusted with the remnants of snow, his hair slightly windblown from the journey, and exhaustion shadows his eyes.
He’s really here.
“You...” The single word catches in my throat.
“I know.” There’s a fissure in his voice, a crack, that makes me feel less self-conscious. The adrenaline drains from my body so abruptly that it leaves me trembling.
I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together these last few days until this moment.
Until he’s standing in front of me.
Tears well up hot and ready, and I laugh, embarrassed. Rus makes a sound of amusement, but he probably can’t even see them; they haven’t spilled over yet.
Strong arms gather me against him as though I weigh nothing at all, lowering us both onto the edge of the bed instead. I bury my face against his shoulder, breathing in cedar, cold mountain air, and the faint trace of his cologne.
“I thought someone got past Frank,” I whisper brokenly.
“He tried.”
“What?”
I feel Rus smile into my hair. “It took him a moment to realize I had a key, and he came at me almost the same way you did. Think he has a history with the FBI?”
Even in the dark my cheeks go hot with color. It’s crazy how casually he’s able to talk about that now—the lie I kept secret for weeks. I’m not sure if I should be insulted that my past with the FBI doesn’t worry him, or see it as a sign of trust.
“With Frank, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“He took his assignment seriously.”
“He does. You have no idea.”
Rus brushes a hand slowly through my hair, his touch impossibly gentle after the way I’d attacked him only moments ago.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“I attacked you.”
“You attacked an intruder.”
“I tried to dislocate your shoulder.”
“You almost succeeded.”
I pull back just enough to search his face. “Really?”
“No.” His smile grows warmer. “You’re rusty, but your form was excellent.”
I swat weakly at his chest, and he catches my hand, pressing a lingering kiss against my knuckles before threading our fingers together. The gesture is so tender that another wave of emotion crashes over me.
“You should be more careful, though,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes the back of my hand. “If you’re still pregnant…”
My throat feels tight. Has he spent the last days apart wondering if I’d go back to the clinic to end this before it ever began? After all, I didn’t give him a definitive answer about whether or not I wanted this child.
“I am.”
Rus’ grip tightens around me as he holds me somehow even closer, a slow shudder going through him.
“Good,” he says gruffly. “But no more fighting. I’m here now, and no one is going to hurt you.” My eyes close as I breathe him in, sudden exhaustion sweeping through my body. “I promise you, l’vyonak.”
Frank is the first to break the silence.
He knocks lightly on the doorframe, backlit by the lamps in the main space of the cabin.
“Not to break up this reunion, but it’s late, and there are only two beds here, Ruslan. What’s your plan?”
Movement behind his shoulder. There’s a woman behind him, a beat-up luggage bag beside her. There are hollows under her eyes and she looks haunted, gaunt almost. But also remarkably like Kate.
Shannon.
Rus squeezes my hand once before standing.
“There’s a bed-and-breakfast in West River.”
Frank raises an eyebrow. “I remember driving by it.”
“I’d like you to take Shannon there.” He reaches into his coat and removes a folded envelope, presumably filled with cash. “Get two rooms, but stay with her, please, if you can manage another few days. I’ll have men watching as well, of course.”
Frank looks between the two of us before reaching for the envelope. “Who knew I’d become a bodyguard in my old age,” he quips drily, but his expression has softened. “I do hope this charming establishment has standards.”
“It does.”
“Hot water?”
“Yes.”
“A decent mattress?”
“I believe so.”
Frank narrows his eyes suspiciously. “A bathtub?”
Rus hesitates just long enough to answer the question. “No.”
Frank throws both hands in the air. “Uncivilized.”
Despite everything weighing on the room, I laugh.
“It’s European style,” Rus says evenly, and from the way his shoulders settle, I can see the exhaustion in him as well. A quick glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand—it’s just past 3 a.m.
“Oh, well.” Frank straightens his pajama shirt. “Why didn’t you say so?” His expression immediately turns theatrical again. “I’ll still complain.”
“I expected nothing less.”
Frank smiles, then turns toward Shannon with surprising warmth. “Come along.”
She glances nervously at Rus.
“You’ll be all right,” he says quietly.
She doesn’t say anything, but her eyes dart to me. Does she know who I am? Anything about me?
I’m surprised by the sudden surge of embarrassment and insecurity I feel remembering every detail of my past, and the fact that soon it will be revealed to the public. And then I remember that this is probably how Shannon feels, too.
I return her gaze steadily, and she gives me a brief smile, then a nod—following Frank to the door.
“After you.”
As they disappear into the snowy night, the cabin falls wonderfully still. Only the crackle of the fire fills the silence.
Rus closes the door behind them and locks it before leaning against it for a brief moment. His shoulders drop again, as though he’d been carrying something impossibly heavy all day.
When he turns back toward me, his eyes immediately settle on my stomach.
“How’s our little passenger?”
The question is so unexpectedly gentle that my hand instinctively drifts to my belly.
“I think everything’s fine.”
“You think?”
“I don’t exactly have a dashboard with warning lights. But I’ve felt okay. Grossed out by bacon. Frank has been cooking for me.”
A smile tugs at his mouth.
“That man is a saint.”
“I’m still tired,” I say pointedly, dragging myself further back onto the bed.
“You’ve been through a great deal.”
“So have you.”
His gaze lingers on my hand for another moment before lifting to my face. “I worried about you, Emma.”
“I know.”
“I worried the entire flight. There and back.” Emotion softens his features in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. “I imagined every possible disaster.”
He walks toward me slowly until only a step separates us, his tall form towering over me in the shadows of the room.
“I also learned something tonight.”
“Oh?”
He reaches for my wrist, turning it gently in his hand.
“You’re dangerous.”
Heat rises into my cheeks.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “I’m impressed.”
The compliment catches me off guard.
“My instructors would probably be happy to hear that.”
He studies me for a moment before admitting, “The FBI taught you well.”
The words hang gently between us. They’re not accusatory or resentful, just the truth.
I lower my eyes. “There are parts of that time I’d rather leave behind. I think in the end, I realized I wasn’t really cut out for it. Not cold enough.”
I brace myself for questions. Instead, Rus simply nods.
“When you’re ready, if you want to, you can tell me about it.”
My eyes narrow, because of everyone; Ruslan Smirnov has exactly the kind of access to pull my record. Even the blacklisted information—everything that happened in Miami, the coercion, the threats, the eventual desperate bid to put my tormentor behind bars with the help of his daughter.
“You don’t want details?”
“I want them. But I don’t need them tonight.”
Something inside my chest twists painfully. After everything we’ve been through together, he still chooses patience. It’s more than I would have expected from a crime boss, more than I thought I’d ever get from a man.
I reach up and touch his cheek. His eyes close for the briefest moment beneath my fingertips.
“I missed you,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“I hated sleeping without you.”
“I hated leaving.”
He leans forward, brushing his forehead lightly against mine.
I kiss him first.
Slowly.
Without urgency.
He answers the kiss with one hand settling gently at my waist, the other cradling the back of my neck as though I’m something infinitely precious. Every touch is careful, every movement asking rather than taking, and I melt into him before I even realize I’m doing it.
When we finally separate, I smile up at him.
“I love you.”
The words escape before I can catch them. His breath catches.
For one beautiful second, I think he’s going to answer. Instead, something changes behind his eyes.
He steps back.
Just one pace.
Then another.
I frown. “Rus?”
He turns away, clasping his hands behind his back as he begins to pace slowly. The movement is familiar now, something he does whenever his thoughts become too large to contain. A knot forms in my stomach.
“Is everything okay?”
He stops beside the window, looking out into the darkness where snowflakes continue drifting through the pines.
When he turns back, his expression is gentle enough to make my heart skip.
“Everything is perfect.” His eyes find mine. “Especially you.”
He crosses the room before I can respond, gathering me into his arms with a tenderness that steals the rest of my words. His kiss is slower this time, deeper, carrying all the relief of returning safely and all the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring.
The fire burns low as the night stretches around us, and the rest of the world fades quietly away.
* * *
Later, curled against his chest beneath the old quilts, I listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and realize I’m no longer fighting whatever this is.
He might be a criminal, but he’s more than that—a good man.
Someone trying to change the world for the better, and he isn’t doing it in the shadows.
That’s the kind of man I’m willing to follow. To fight with.