Page 10 of Unbroken

I don’t want to wake up Luka, but?—

“Ruthie,” I hiss, pulling the shower curtain around me for some privacy. I can hear her in the kitchen, but it isn’t that far away. “Ruthie.”

Luka stirs. I freeze. The kid needs his sleep.

Shit.

I could jump out of the shower naked, run to the hallway where the clean towels are, and risk letting my sister-in-law see me streak through my house soaking wet.

Or not.

I roll my eyes and let out a low, sharp whistle. Luka doesn’t move, and the sound in the kitchen ceases. I whistle again. A few seconds later, I hear the telltale sound of her footsteps heading this way. I look over to see Luka rolling over but still snoring softly.

“Did youwhistleat me?” Ruthie hisses from the doorway.

“I forgot a towel.”

She snorts at me, the little brat. “And?”

“Ruthie.Get me a towel.”

“Sayplease.”

I grit my teeth. After her ass is out of here, I’m changing the locks. “Please.”

“And give me your credit card.”

“Are you blackmailing me for a towel?” I hiss.Jesus.

“No, you need groceries,” she says, smug as sin. “Hang on.”

I hear her footsteps retreat, slow and unhurried, like she wants me to freeze to death or suffer. Probably both.

But she doesn’t hand me a towel. She fucking drapes it, deliberately, on the hook by the curtain, just out of reach.

She knows what she’s doing.

“Here you go,” she says, tilting her head at me. “Don’t ever say I never gave you anything.”

I glare through the steam, water still streaming down my body. “You could’ve passed it to me.”

“I suppose I could have. And you could’ve acted like a grown-up and remembered your towel. Seriously, Vadka. You had one job.”

That smile. That wicked, sweet smirk of hers, that’s all Ruthie.

“You really want to play this game?” I growl. I wrap the towel around my waist and shove the curtain aside. Her eyes grow wide, and in a second, she quickly sweeps her eyes down the length of my bare chest, over my inked shoulders and torso, before she realizes what she’s doing. Her cheeks flame red.

I see the moment she realizes I was crying—her own eyes well with tears, and she looks away.

“Come on,” she whispers. “Get dressed. I made breakfast.”

We both look over to the sleeping form of my baby boy.

“He always sleep in your bed?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Just a lot since Mariah’s been gone though.”

She nods, eying my dirty clothes strewn on the floor. My eyes linger on a pair of socks. I wasn’t this sloppy before she died. I’m a grown-ass man who likes his shit clean. And Mariah would lose hermindover the fucking socks. Everytime I left them on the floor, she’d act like I dropped a live grenade in the living room.

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