Page 47 of Unbroken

I need another fucking drink.

“I’ll find one,” I say. “I’m getting another drink too. Do you want anything?”

"I had enough," she says. “And wait, there’s a brush in the bottom of this bag.”

I decide bed will be a better option than another drink. So I peel back the covers to what is, thankfully, a very large bed, and I lie down. God, it feels good to lie down. Every muscle in my body is tense and aching, and my whole body needs rest. I’m suddenly aware of my lack of clothing.

I glance over at the sweaty, folded T-shirt on the dresser. I don’t want to wear it.

Ruthie notices where my focus is. “You don’t have to wear that. I’m not interested in sleeping in bed with you and your body odor.”

Brat.She’s so getting it for that.

"I bet you usually sleep naked or something,” she adds.

I grunt.

Her cheeks flush, and she rolls her eyes. "Listen, just sleep in your boxers. I’m immune to you guys by now." She waves a hand in the air.

“Spends two hours at the gym for weeks on end only to hearshe’s fuckingimmuneto me,” I mutter. “You really know how to build a guy up.”

But I’m not dumb. And I don’t miss the way her nipples peak through her T-shirt.

She snorts. "Well, if you think I’m wearing a bra to bed again—fucking torture devices. I hardly wear one during the day as it is."

I did not need to know that.

I didnotneed to know that.

"How long do you think we’ll be here?" she asks.

"Couple days," I tell her. "These places aren’t meant for long-term. Just enough time so we can secure the safety of everybody here. Know where we stand."

Right now, everything feels tense—on edge. Our rivals are circling, waiting for us to slip. Trying to squeeze us out of the port, threaten the docks, poison our routes. We've lost two runners already. Another went missing.

This safe house is a band-aid on a bullet wound, but it’s all we’ve got while Matvei figures out what comes next.

"I’ll have to get in touch with my boss," she says with a frown.

"If I know Rafail, he already did."

I watch as she swipes at her face with a round cotton pad, tosses it in the trash, and then runs the brush she found through her hair. She brushes her teeth and secures her hair in a tiny little braid. I didn’t even know it was long enough to do that.

She puts lotion on her hands and lifts her foot onto the tub to moisturize her legs. She has beautiful legs—long and strong—the legs of a dancer. She took ballet when she was younger but stopped because her mother couldn’t afford it anymore. I wonder if she still likes it.

"Vadka. Why are you watching me?" she asks softly, without a trace of judgment in her voice.

I am. I am watching her.

It feels intimate and, somehow, soothing. I didn’t realize until right now how much I miss watching Mariah get ready for bed. There was something about her habits, her rituals, her routines—it would signal to me that it was time to sleep. And I feel the same about Ruthie now.

"I don’t know," I say quietly. "It’s soothing."

She’s looking down at her legs, and I watch her swallow once, then twice. "Why do you keep saying things that make me wanna cry?" she says, and her voice breaks.

"I don’t know," I tell her honestly. I sigh. “Why do you?"

And then she crosses the room to me, and she’s crying. Tears stream down her face, and my heart aches.

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