Page 46 of Unbroken
She’s in front of the mirror, twisting her hair up, spine arched like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.
I grab the clothes just to have something to hold that isn’t her. Just to keep my hands from acting on instinct.
Is she baiting me? Of all the women in my life, I’d never say Ruthie was a flirt. She’s too snarky, too independent.
But I was married to her sister, a little voice in the back of my head reminds me…
She turns, catches my stare, and smirks. “Oh, relax. I know you’re picturing me naked, but I’ll make sure the lights are off. For your…comfort.” She sways a bit, wobbly on her feet.
Jesus.
Ruthie’s still tipsy.
“You’re drunk, Ruthie. Drink some water and get your ass in bed.”
“I’m not drunk.” She rolls her eyes at me, and I’m losing a grip on my self-control.
“You’re one more bratty word from getting thrown over my knee,” I threaten her. “Drunk or not, I’ll fucking sober you up.”
That gets her attention. Her mouth parts, and she doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But her eyes flare, and her voice drops.
“Getting kinky on me, Vadka?” she asks. And then she grins. Fucking grins.
“Ruthie,” I growl and flex my hand. I can already feel the sting on my palm.
Mariah wasn’t into any of that, and I?—
I can’t think about Mariah.
I turn away as Ruthie grabs her stuff and heads for the bathroom, mouthing off at me under her breath as she goes. I grit my teeth and take a step toward her.
What the hell am I doing?
She’s not mine. She might deserve a good spanking, but I can’t go there. She’d either slice my throat or kiss me—and neither of those are viable options.
Jesus.
I hear her fumbling around in the bathroom when my exhaustion hits me like a two-by-four. I’ve barely slept today. My eyes are sandpaper-dry, my throat aches, and my head is pounding from lack of sleep. I need to sleep so fucking bad. I’m gonna sleep like the dead when I hit the bed, whether she’s beside me or not.
I grab a pair of boxers—don’t sleep in anything more than that—strip out of my clothes and fold them on top of the dresser.
The first couple of weeks after Mariah died, I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I threw myself into the gym, the one thing I could still control. The burn made my own pain easier to bear, if only for a little while.
And the results? Not bad. I’d gotten soft with marriage and parenthood. It feels good to get stronger.
I strip off my shirt. Step out of my pants. I figure I’ve got a few seconds to get dressed while Ruthie’s still in the bathroom.
Just as I’m stepping into my boxers, the door swings open.
“Hey, do you have?—”
I spin around so she doesn’t see my dick, and instead, flash her my ass. Great.
“Nice ass,” she says. “Tell your trainer that whatever he’s doing with your glutes, it’s working.” She giggles, and it’s so fucking adorable, I smile.
“Just wondering if you had something that resembles a comb or a hairbrush,” she says, running her fingers through her tangled hair. “Lookat thismess.”
She’s beautiful. Disheveled. Windswept. Her eyes are bright. And there’s something about her—alwayssomething—that makes me want to wrap her in my arms and kiss her until she forgets every damn thing that ever hurt.
