Page 40 of Unleashed

“You alright?”

“I’ve got it.” I put both crutches in one hand and hop one step at a time. My husband stands just in front of me, clearly using all his self-control not to help. Resisting the urge doesn’t come naturally to him. I can tell by the tension in his jaw and shoulders he's not too crazy about this plan, but it's working. He grits his teeth, standing just in front of me and takes a step forward just before I do.

"Are you standing there so that if I fall, you'll catch me?" I ask, huffing and puffing and sweating from the exertion.

He shrugs, his eyes meeting mine only briefly before he takes another step back. "Yeah, baby. That's a husband's job."

Something like pleasure weaves its way across my chest, and I swallow a lump in my throat. So damn emotional on these meds. I want to get off them soon.

"What did you give me for pain meds?"

He lists off a bunch of names, things I've never heard of before.

"I want something over the counter. Please," I tack on as an afterthought. "Something tamer."

Step. Hop. Brace.

"They won't work as well,” he mutters, still frowning.

"I know, but that’s a risk I'm willing to take."

I don't want another dream like the one I had last night. Something tells me it may have been the pain meds.

Finally, we reach the bottom of the stairs. “I can’t believe I was a runner, and I can hardly handle a flight of stairs without being winded.” It’s frustrating as hell. I place the crutches back under my arms and glide my way next to him.

“You’ll get back there. Patience.”

“Ah, something else you’ll teach me?” I ask with a playful smile.

Rafail grunts in response as he walks, and I hobble across a formal dining room. The polished table is covered in textbooks at one end, with coloring pencils and doodled-on papers scattered around them. It’s clear this room sees more homework and art projects than actual dinners. To the right of the table stands a sideboard with a few cases of sports drinks and soda.

“Careful,” Rafail says with a frown. “I told Rodion to put those away.” Shaking his head, he lifts a notebook. “And Zoya was supposed to get this project in yesterday. She’s been distracted.”

“How old is Zoya?”

“Seventeen.”

He’s been her guardian since she was only a small child. No wonder he has a soft spot for her.

No wonder she’s as timid as a little mouse, poor girl.

“Are those her schoolbooks?”

“Yes. She’s got a big exam coming up.”

Just then, voices ring out from the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of a scuffle—thumps, grunts, and a clatter that makes my heart skip.

“Jesus,” Rafail mutters, striding toward the commotion.

As soon as we round the corner, we find two of his brothers locked in a wrestling match, grappling and shoving each other dangerously close to the counter where a bowl of dough sits, perfectly risen and ready to bake. Zoya’s precious bread.

Without a word, Rafail steps in and grabs them each by the collar, yanking them apart as if they weigh nothing. He gives them both a quick, firm shake, his glare cutting through their adrenaline-fueled grins.

“Alright,” he growls. “Which one of you needs to get your ass kicked first?”

The brothers exchange glances, their faces suddenly sheepish. From behind him, someone I haven’t yet met peeks out, barely containing a snicker.

“Well, Yana?” Rafail prompts, raising an eyebrow at her. “Who’s getting it first?”

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