Page 87 of Keeping Ruby

“I’m aware. But I’m a friend, no?”

I laugh. It’s dark. I’m fucking livid. The next time I see Artyom, he won’t survive me. “You are no friend, Elio. You’re The Butcher.”

“That I am.” He sighs, and it crackles over the line. “You let me know when Ilya is here. Until then, I’ll send two of my men to you.”

I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

“You’re too public a figure to have a wife wanted by this many bad men,” Elio warns me. “You should have sold her to someone who could protect her, keep her hidden. Someone who lives in the shadows of the world in which she was born.”

“She was never a part of that world.”

“Maybe not. But there is a very real possibility she will die under the spotlight you’ve cast her in.”

“It’s done,” I say, thinking of my wife—and how I will never, ever let her go. “It can’t be undone.”

“If you change your mind, you let me know. I know a man who would take her—keep her safe. She’d live a peaceful life, untouched by this.”

“If he is a man you know, Elio, she would be just as touched.”

“No,” Elio grits. “She wouldn’t.”

I growl. “She’s mine.”

“She is good. To her core, she is good. I’ve looked into her as I’ve looked into you. The woman hasn’t done an evil deed in her life. Is your love worth her spilled blood?”

“Her blood won’t be spilled if your men are as capable as you say.” I’m coiled tight, ready to burst. “And I will lay down my own life before I let even a hair on her head be harmed.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. It’s a fool thing, a man in love.” With that, the line goes dead.

Forty-One

Ruby

I can’t get the possibility that I might be pregnant from my mind. It’s plagued me for three days—since I first set eyes on the realtor who sold Kirill the house. I feel like I’m drowning in worry.

I need a firm yes or no.

Steeling myself against my fear, I take the stool next to Pavel. His head twists to the side, and his eyes roam up and then down my body.

“You look—” he pauses. “Put together today.”

I huff, but I’m smiling. Pavel is a tough nut to crack, but when you do, I’ve found he’s macadamia sweet. I give his shoulder a friendly pat. “Why, thank you, Mac.”

His face screws up in confusion. “I don’t know why you call me that.”

“You likely never will,” I singsong.

“I don’t like it.”

“Tough nuts, Mac.”

He grunts, lifting his coffee and taking a long gulp. I cringe, because the man drinks it black. Coffee doesn’t smell appealing on a sugary, creamy day. But his coffee is like sniffing glue. It’s that strong.

Maxim takes that moment to enter the kitchen, his brows lifting as he takes me in. “Look who is all dressed up with nowhere to go. Feeling better?”

“Actually, I was hoping we would maybe head out today.”

Pavel’s head swivels to me. “What?”

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