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He pulls the duvet over my naked body and suddenly, I’m sobbing all over his Egyptian cotton sheets.
As if he doesn’t already have enough reasons to get rid of me.
“Emma…”
A moment later, his cool chest hits my back and his arms engulf me. The coldness subsides in seconds and I’m swimming in his oaky scent and his warmth.
“Y-you don’t have to do this,” I whimper.
“Sleep now,” is all he whispers to me. “Just sleep.”
His voice betrays nothing. I can’t see his face and, even if I could, I’m scared of what I might see there. Yes, he’s spent this whole ordeal by my side, but guilt doesn’t necessarily equal affection. And kindness doesn’t equal hope.
“Ruslan—”
“Shh.”
His voice is gentle. It’s almost enough to make me believe that he’s here because he cares about me. But I signed a contract that said that that would never happen. I don’t want to bethatgirl. The girl who dared to hope for more even after she was explicitly told that more was not an option.
“Sleep now. In the morning, I’ll take you back.”
Is he stamping“Return to Sender”on my forehead? Are those words the kiss of death? I want to ask but I’m swallowed up in a cocktail of drugs, fatigue, and failure.
Might as well succumb to sleep now.
I’ll still be a dud tomorrow.
65
EMMA
He’s sitting on the chair by the window, his features twisted up with melancholy. At least I think it’s melancholy. I might just be projecting. My mood feels a little bit like a sinkhole. The more I try to snap out of it, the deeper I fall in.
I watch him for a few minutes before he realizes I’m awake. He’s so damn beautiful—all the more so now that I know the kind of man that hides behind that steely exterior.
The kind of man who cares enough about an eight-year-old boy to help him overcome his anger issues.
The kind of man who takes two little girls out to ice cream because their own father can’t be bothered.
The kind of man who takes care of a broken woman because she clearly can’t take care of herself.
His gaze flickers to me. “You’re awake.”
I nod and force myself upright.
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Breakfast will help.”
Just the thought of eating makes me want to throw up. As does the thought of staying in this apartment any longer. It’s too big a reminder of everything I can’t do, everything I’m in the process of losing.
“I need to get home.”
He doesn’t argue. He probably wants to get me back home himself. Playing nurse really doesn’t seem like Ruslan’s style. And yet, as with everything else, he does it so well. He carries me to the bathroom despite my protests; he helps me get dressed; he even insists that I eat an apple before we leave.
I’m expecting the SUV to come to take us to Hell's Kitchen, but Ruslan ends up driving himself. The whole ride is marked by a heavy silence that I don’t have the strength to break. I just sit there, wrapped up in a pair of sweats and one of Ruslan’s sweaters. I have half a mind to pull the hood up so that I can hide beneath it.
