Page 60 of Ruthless Lord
Eat pain and keep going.
She’ll figure it out sooner or later.
Chapter 18
Charlie
Ican’t watch.
I catch one glimpse of that monster Vladimir before getting out of there. The Russian’s enormous and built like a bear. The only man nearly as big is Stefano, but I can’t bring myself to stick around and watch my husband get pummeled.
It’s all too much. I get an Uber back home and open a bottle of wine alone in the kitchen. I’m tempted to call Emily, but it’s past midnight and that wouldn’t be fair. I know we’re trying a friendship thing, except our relationship’s a little complicated. Better not to make her feel like she’s obligated to come over here.
Instead, I drink a couple glasses and wait. I stare at my phone on the kitchen counter, wondering when Albert will call with the bad news.Sorry, Charlie, but your husband is in the ICU. I know you like vegetables, so this shouldn’t be so bad, right?I sigh at my own bleak joke. It’s not funny, but I’m in such a bad state right now, I can’t help it.
The worst part is I know I shouldn’t have gone there. But when Albert texted me and told me about Stefano’s opponent, I couldn’t help myself.
I had a plan. Storm into the locker room and make him see reason. I was going to tell him how he’s got a wife now, he’s got responsibilities. He’s not some low-level street thug anymore.
He can’t risk himself.
But the second I saw him standing there in his fighting shorts and no shirt, all that left my head.
I wanted to be tough. Stand up to him.
Instead, I practically begged him not to go out there.
I just keep thinking about Stefano getting his face smashed into the canvas. I keep thinking about losing him. No more big monster in my bed. No more games, no more teasing, no more touching and not touching. The idea filled me with dread, and instead of telling him off, I ended up pleading with him.
Almost like I cared.
Which I absolutelydo not.
Because if he gets himself killed, guess what?
Free divorce.
I down a second glass of wine, miserable and frustrated. I keep checking the clock, but it doesn’t seem to move. I finish a third glass and force myself upstairs, cursing my husband for being such a stubborn, selfish prick, and climb into bed. To hell with him. If he’s in the hospital, let some other idiot girl go sit by his side and cry over his body. That won’t be me.
I’m almost convinced that I really don’t care what happens to him when the front door opens. I practically jump out of bed, throwing the covers aside. I hear footsteps head into the kitchen, and I hurry down. There’s a clatter of glasses, the freezer door opens, and I find Stefano standing hunched over the sink with the cold bottle of vodka. The tumbler in his hand is half full and the glass is pressed against his red and swollen left eye.
He looks at me. I stare back at him. There’s blood staining his shirt. His duffel is tossed on the floor near the chairs. He sips the vodka, his lip swollen, his cheek puffy.
But he’s alive.
“How’d it go?” I ask, holding myself to keep from trembling.
“I won.”
Relief floods me. I have to turn my back on him and close my eyes to swallow back the tears. I had no idea I’d feel this emotional, and I fucking hate it. When I’m steady, I turn back to find him studying me, that stupid bottle still against his eye.
“Let me get you real ice, you idiot,” I mutter, opening the freezer again. I put some in a bag and wrap it in a kitchen towel. “Here, use this.”
“Thanks.” He accepts the bundle.
“That looks terrible.” I prod at a nasty cut on his brow. He puts the ice over it.
“It’ll heal. You should see Vladimir.”
