Cruel Paradise (Oryolov Bratva Book 1)
: Chapter 64

When I’m finally discharged from the hospital, Ruslan insists on taking me back to the penthouse.

It feels weird coming here when sex is off the table. Almost as though it’s a waste of the apartment. Somehow, it all feels like a waste now.

Does all that incredible sex we’ve had mean nothing if nothing comes out of it?

Does he regret choosing me?

I’m aware that I’m not thinking rationally. My head hurts. My ankle hurts. My heart hurts. Everything hurts. But I can’t pull myself out of the downward spiral.

I sit at the edge of his bed, staring out at the view, trying to imagine what my life will look like if I never get to carry a baby of my own, never raise a child of my own. Is this ache in my chest permanent? Will it ease with time or will I have to learn to live with it?

“Emma.”

I accept the glass of water Ruslan’s offering me but I don’t take a sip despite how parched I am. It feels like every inch of motion requires energy I just don’t have. And then, beneath that, it feels like I don’t deserve the water, or his affection, or anything but this thudding, pounding, grinding ache in my chest.

He takes the glass off my hands but just when I think he’s about to set it down, he brings it to my lips instead. All I do is swallow; he does the rest. When I’ve finished every last drop, he unzips my dress and pulls it off me. He strips off my underwear, too.

I’m struck by how different this experience is. Ruslan has undressed me a hundred times in the past. But this time is different. He’s gentle. He takes it slow. He doesn’t touch me except for when he needs to. The half-crazed look of passion and hunger that I’m used to seeing in his eyes is gone. Instead, his eyebrows pull together, his lips pursed down as if he’s concentrating. I can only guess at what he’s feeling.

He has to be disappointed, too, right? He was counting on me to give him an heir.

But instead, he got stuck with the dud woman and her dud fallopian tube.

I bet he’s regretting that new contract now.

Then again, Ruslan Oryolov always thinks ahead. He probably has a hidden clause in our contract for just such a circumstance. In the event that Party B (henceforth known as “The Dud”) is unable to fulfill her contractually obligated duties as set forth in the preceding sections, Party A (henceforth known as “The Boss”) will kick The Dud to the curb and replace her with a woman who possesses a functioning fallopian tube (and no gag reflex).

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—” Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“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 be that girl. 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.

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