Page 74 of Unbroken
I sigh. “Great. How am I supposed to work?”
“We’ll get you a boot, maybe crutches. Honestly, it’d be better if you didn’t work at all.”
“It’d be better if I hadn’t sprained my ankle,” I say, sighing.
He sighs too. “Yeah. I know. Shit, baby.”
God, I love the way he says that. Love the sound of his voice. Love everything about him.
“You sure you didn’t come here to spy on me?” he asks, brow raised.
I shake my head, a ghost of a smile on my lips. “We just had the same brilliant, tragic idea at the same time.”
Neither of us says what we’re both thinking—that last night’s mess, the tangle of grief and comfort and need, pushed us here. Maybe grief does that. Maybe it drives you into the arms of the only person who understands.
I wonder if I can trust Zoya with this. That woman’s a vault, steel-reinforced.
“It looks beautiful,” I whisper, my voice catching as I look at the grave. “You’ve done a great job keeping it up.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs. “All right. Let’s figure this out. How did you get here?”
“Idrove.”
“I’ve got my bike,” he says, frowning. “That’s not a good idea for you. You won’t be able to brace yourself with that ankle. You should have it elevated. I’ll drive your car, and I’ll have one of my guys come pick up the bike.”
“I thought you didn’t trust anyone to ride your bike.”
He hesitates. “I don’t. But your safety’s more important.”
I press my hand to my chest, feeling the flutter there. “Aw. Are you beingsweetright now? Vadka, is that you?”
“Don’t be a brat,” he growls, and it’s that voice—the one that guarantees I’ll absolutely keep being a brat, just to make him say it again.
Truth be told, I don’t like needing help. I hate being dependent. I pride myself on my strength. This whole thing sucks.
“Let’s get you in the car. Get you looked at.”
“I hate going to the doctor,” I whine, fully aware that I sound like a child. I pout. “Doesn’t Rafail have someone?”
“Yeah,” he says with a smirk, eyebrows lifting. “But you’re not one of the Bratva, remember? I believe you were the one who reminded me of that.”
Oh,fuckmy life. “I think I’m fine,” I try to argue, attempting to get up.
“Ruthie.”
He doesn’t even let me. He just lifts me—bodily—and starts carrying me. “We’ll let the doctor decide whether or not you’re fine.”
“Who asked you?” Igrumble.
He leans in, his voice a whisper against my ear. “I know you hate being told what to do, Ruthie,” he says, low and lethal. “But you do like getting your ass spanked. And you, little brat, are pushing every one of my goddamn buttons. Keep going. See what happens.”
I would turn away from him, but where the hell would I even go? One way, I’m staring into those beautiful eyes. The other, I’m pressed against that absolutely sinful chest. Not exactly a bad place to be.
At least we’re not talking about my dead sister anymore, I think bitterly. Which—yeah, I know—is a fucked-up thing to think. So sue me.
“Where’d you park?” he asks, not even winded. How? How is he not even breathing hard? He’s carrying an entire human. I get winded carrying a gallon of milk.
“Around the corner.”
