Page 32 of Single Mom's Daddies
8
NIKOLAI
There’sa sound bones make when they’re grinding down against each other. You don’t forget it once you’ve heard it. It’s a dry, ugly scrape. A warning. Sometimes I hear that sound when I’m lying in bed at night, even if I know nothing around me is moving. Even if I know the house is still, the locks are sealed, the children are asleep.
Sometimes I think it’s just my mind grinding against itself.
Tonight is one of those nights.
I haven’t slept for more than an hour at a time since Ruger showed up again. He’s not kicking in doors. He’s not holding press conferences. He’s just circling—methodical and slow. The kind of slow that means he’s sure he’s got time. And he probably does.
Ruger’s not like the rest of them. He doesn’t burn hot. He burnslong. I remember the first time I saw that look in his eyes—five years ago, after the bullets stopped flying and the Costellos were bleeding out on asphalt that smelled like gasoline and rain.
He stood across the street, mouth a thin line, not even aiming his weapon anymore. Just staring. His partner was on the ground, dead. One shot to the chest. Maybe two. I didn’t check the body. I had other things to look at. I hadherto look at.
Nadia.
The hole in her forehead looked like a second eye—unblinking, perfectly round, placed like someone had drawn it with a pencil and then carved through the page.
I had seen death before.
That one rewired me.
And now Ruger’s back. Poking at things. Sniffing around things that should be buried. I can feel it in my bones, that scrape—warning me we’re closer to something breaking than anyone wants to admit.
I try to go to sleep around midnight. It doesn’t last.
When the dream comes, it’s always the same. I don’t see the blood at first. I see her walking toward me—pale skin shining under streetlights, curls pulled back, eyes lit up like she’s about to say something funny. I see the smile begin to form.
Then the gunshot. Then the crack in the world.
This time, I wake up too fast to scream. Just sit bolt upright, chest tight, throat burning, sweat clinging to my back like guilt.
I’m tired of seeing her die. Even if it’s not how it went down, I can’t…I can’t do this again. I need to move. To breathe. To remind myself that time has passed and I’m not the man kneeling next to her body anymore.
I throw on a T-shirt and sweatpants and head downstairs barefoot, palms still tingling.
The hallway’s dim, the sconces low. The weight of the house at night is different. It watches. It remembers. I know every creak in the floorboards here, every window that hums when the wind changes. It’s the only place I trust.
So it surprises me when I walk into the kitchen and find Saffron already there.
She’s standing by the sink with a mug in both hands, eyes half-lidded, hair twisted up with curls falling down the back of her neck. She’s wearing a long sleep shirt and knee socks, and her posture is loose—more vulnerable than she’d let show during the day.
She doesn’t startle when she sees me. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“No.”
“Me neither.” She doesn’t move. Doesn’t shift to make space for me, but doesn’t wall herself off either. I get the sense she somehow knew I’d come down eventually.
“How’s Ivy?” I ask.
“Still in the hospital. They’re watching her oxygen tonight.”
“Shit.”
She nods once, not looking at me. “They keep saying she’s stable, so I’m here.”
I know that tone. I’ve used it before. I step in, grab a glass from the cabinet, and pour water from the fridge. I drink half of it before saying anything else. “You always drink tea this late?”
