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“Let’s find you somewhere to sit.” Wrapping an arm around my waist to support me, he scans the far side of the road. Then, before I can protest, he sweeps me up off my feet.
“Mishka, your ribs!” I insist, scared to struggle and injure him further.
“It’s just across the street,” he insists and settles me onto a good-sized boulder.
“Well… thank you,” I murmur.
The balls of my feet start to tingle as soon as I slip my shoes off, and I bite back a groan at the angry red welts that cover the tops of my toes and wrap around the backs of my heels.
Mishka turns his attention to the road, looking back the way we came, in search of someone headed toward the city.
“How long do you think we’ll have to wait?” I’ve never done anything remotely like this before, and I hope we won’t be stuck on the road for another twelve hours or more.
He shrugs. “It depends on how busy this road gets on a weekend, I suppose.”
“What time do you think it is?” I ask, shielding my eyes as I peer up at the sky.
Mishka glances upward. “Early afternoon. I’d say around two thirty.”
He says it so casually, I’m struck dumb once again by his apparent knowledge of nature and survival.
“You think we’ll make it home before dinner?” My tummy rumbles at the mere mention of food.
Flashing me a cocky grin, Mishka doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”
I think he’s smiled more in the last twelve hours than in all the rest of the time I’ve known him combined. I could get used to this. I wonder what it is that has eased his sullen expression. I won’t flatter myself to think his frustration stemmed from Viktor warning him to stay away from me.
Mishka’s frown was there from the very moment I met him. And yet now, in the middle of God knows where, with no clue who might take us home or how we’ll get there, he seems the happiest I’ve ever seen.
I’d like to think that at least has something to do with me.
My heart skips a beat as the rumble of a truck engine echoes from around the bend. A moment later, an old blue-and-white beater of a Ford truck rumbles around the corner. Mishka steps into the road without hesitation, waving his arms over his head to ensure he catches the driver’s attention.
I can see the reticence on the man’s face as he slows when he draws closer. He doesn’t want to stop for us. Who would when a burly, tattooed Russian is rather insistently asking for a ride? But as soon as Mishka points in my direction, the stranger’s nervous expression transforms into one of deep concern.
He rolls to a stop, and Mishka steps up to his passenger-side window, waiting politely for the man to lower it. They have a brief conversation—none of which I can hear over the truck’s growling engine.
Then Mishka turns to me with a broad grin. “We’ve got a ride!” he says, striding toward me.
I start to slip my shoes back on, but before I can, he scoops me back up into his arms.
“I can walk, Mishka,” I insist.
“No, you can’t. I told him so just to make sure he wouldn’t consider leaving us stranded, so act like you’re hurt.”
“I am hurt,” I point out.
He chuckles. “You can ride in the cab with him. I said I’d ride in the bed to make him more comfortable.”
“I want to ride in the bed too,” I state.
“No you don’t,” he counters.
“I’m not riding in the cab,” I say flatly, meeting his eye.
That familiar frown starts to buckle his strong eyebrows, but then we’re at the passenger door, and he wipes the dangerous look from his face.
“Thank you so much for the ride,” I say, grasping the window frame to flash the truck driver a winning smile. “You’re a lifesaver. Really.”
