Page 75 of Unbroken

We walk in silence, and now that my foot is dangling freely, the pain intensifies. It burns. Tears well in my eyes, and I don’t think it’s just the ankle anymore. Everything hurts. Thiswhole thinghurts.

“You all right?” he asks, his voice so gentle it makes my throat ache. When we were younger, I didn’t know this softer side of him, but being a dad has changed things.

“It hurts a lot,” I whisper, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry.”

“We talked about this, Ruthie,” he says, his tone chiding.

“About what?”

“About apologizing for things that don’t even deserve an apology. You don’t get to say sorry for being sad, for visitingyour sister’s grave. Or for twisting your ankle while doing it. You should know by now—I’m not ashamed of crying. And you shouldn’t be either. People cry. It’s natural. It’s survival. It’s release.”

“Is that what your brothers think?”

He scoffs, lips curling like the thought itself is offensive. “Who gives a fuck what my brothers think?” He might, but he won’t admit that to me. And I don’t ask again. I just nod because even if it’s a little contradictory, there’s truth buried in it.

And for one breathless, fragile moment, his forehead presses to mine. The kind of moment that would dissolve if we spoke too loudly, too fast. I feel his pulse fluttering beneath my fingers—racing, alive, real. It’s steady and wild, like a storm that’s chosen me as its eye.

“Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours,” he says low, his voice like gravel and velvet. “I’m taking you back to the Kopolovs. We’ll get your ankle looked at. But right now, it’s just me and you, Ruthie. No distractions. What are you thinking?”

I pause, then whisper, “I heard what you said to Mariah.”

His body stills.

“Do you regret what we did?” My voice shakes a little. “Because I already feel like a regret. I was an accident. My mother didn’t want me. And now…”

His grip tightens around me, and his eyes bore into mine.

“I have no regrets, Ruthie. Not one. I’d do it all again. Over. And over. And over. Every single damn night.”

It has got to be wrong to be turned on in a cemetery. People fear getting struck by lightning if they’re heathens in a church, but I’m practically looking over my shoulder for how desperately I want him.

I believe him. I don’t need to ask if he loves me—Iknowhe does. And I love him too. Recklessly. Messily. Desperately.

But still… there’s a piece of me that needs to be sure I’m not just reacting to grief. That he’s not just some kind of twisted solace. He deserves more than being a rebound. And I deserve more than being a mistake.

We make it to my car, and he slides me into the passenger seat. I don’t even protest when he does my buckle and closes the door.

The drive to the Kopolov house is quiet, suspended in a strange kind of peace. At some point, his large hand finds my leg—resting, not roaming—and he strokes my kneecap with slow, steady fingers. It’s not sexual, not this time. It doesn’t spark lust. But something warm coils in my chest anyway. I like his hand there. It makes me feel… safe. Like I belong.

The house comes into view. It’s quiet. Not many cars are outside, and I’m relieved. The fewer the witnesses, the less scrutiny. The less I have to lie or explain what even I haven’t fully made peace with. I couldn’t defend what we did if someone asked. Not now. Not yet.

But who decides the timeline for mourning anyway? Who writes the rules on how long you have to stay in the dark before you're allowed to find some sliver oflight again?

Is there ever a “right time” to fall in love with your dead sister’s husband?

Or maybe… maybe the only timeline that matters is ours.

The house is still.

“Zoya’s not home,” I say, a little disappointed. I could’ve used a good, old-fashioned girl talk. I need someone to tell me I’m not crazy. That this is okay. That love in the aftermath of death isn’t betrayal. That I’m still allowed to want.

“Who’s here?” I ask, glancing at the empty driveway. “Based on the cars.”

He snorts, amused. “What is this, the eighties? We don’t go by cars anymore.”

He pulls up an app on his phone, and I see glowing little dots dancing across the screen.

“Wait. Is that me?” I ask, eyes narrowing.

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