Page 83 of Unbroken

Pulling out my phone, I see texts from Vadka—predictably pissed, sharp and possessive. I don’t answer texts at work, so I respond as I make my way out.

I had to work. You were busy. You knew I had to go in. Relax.

Vadka

If you knew what the doctor told me about being on your feet, you wouldn’t be telling me to relax.

He probably wantedto tack onyoung ladyat the end. Stern. Overbearing. Bossy.

You told me I was safe, Vadka. You told me I had security with me. And you’d protect me too.

Vadka

So?

So I’m fine.

Vadka

Good. And you’re coming home with me.

I hear someone in front of me clearing his throat, and when I look up, I nearly drop my phone.

I swallow hard. “Yes. I’ll come back to your place tonight.”

But we’renothaving sex. I don’t say that part out loud. Not because I don’t want to, but because it always complicates things, and I don’t want to fuck this up.

When I hobble toward the door, he picks me up like it’s his right. Like the ground never deserved me to begin with.

No words. Just arms—hard, possessive, final. I try to squirm, but it’s useless. He’s all muscle and control, and I’m… not.

“Vadka—”

“Shh.”

He brings me home.

“No more, Ruthie. No more running,” he says when he cuts the engine.

“Do I look like I can run with this ridiculous boot strapped to me?”

“You know what I mean.”

Warmth settles into my chest at the sight of the neatly trimmed hedges my sister picked out and the rows of bright yellow and pink pansies.

“I’m carrying you in.”

“I get the feeling that youlikecarrying me,” I say, almost scoffing, trying to play it all off as a joke, when he sobers.

“I do like carrying you. Feels like carrying a doll…” He smirks. “That could bite me if she wanted to.”

“I could arrange that,” I mutter. He winks at me, and it sends my pulse racing straight between my thighs before he sets me on the edge of a table like I’m made of glass, like he’s afraid something might already be broken.

Then he… kneels.

I freeze. Not because I’m scared—though maybe I should be—but because Vadka doesn’t kneel for anyone. But he does for me.

He peels my boot off with surgical precision, fingers methodical, terrifyingly gentle. I’m reminded of him cradling his son in his big, capable hands.

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