Shattered: Running with the Devil Book 7

by Jasmin Quinn

  Was his to her? She tugged on her memories, the ones in Russia. His intervention with the Turk, his promise that he would kill Yuri if the man so much as touched her. Putting his life on the line for her even when Dean had his gun aimed at him. And then coming for her, keeping her safe. Marrying her and loving her. She blinked the tears away. Hated those fucking salty little buggers even more than anchovies.

  Her stomach lurched and she pressed her palm against it. “Sorry, baby,” she whispered realizing that she’d been as out of control as Rusya, maybe even more so. Because he at least had the good sense to separate the two of them. She… well… she would have pulverized him if she could have.

  Exhaustion swept her body and her mind. She laid her head on her arms and closed her eyes. She’d slept in worse places than this.

  She was jolted awake by the clang of the cell door. Her eyes popped open and she was rewarded with the sight of Eduard’s ugly face. He was watching with a smug smile on his lips. “Pissed off the mister, did you?”

  She unfolded herself and stood, stretching her back and her legs. She was sore, cold, tired. “Why are you here, Eduard? To gloat or do you have a higher purpose?”

  “Wish I could beat the stuffing out of you, but your husband thinks your skin’s worth saving. Wants me to bring you to him.” He swiped a key card over an access panel and the door swung open. All the modern conveniences, Esma thought as she stepped carefully past Eduard. She decided to get her hands on one of those cards in case she found herself locked down here again.

  “Do I have to go straight to his lordship, or can I stop to use the bathroom?”

  Eduard grabbed her by the arm and slammed her up against a wall, an elbow to her chest, his face in hers. She felt a world of hurt down her spine as her back hit the concrete. “No wonder he locked you up. You don’t know how to be respectful to anyone, do you?”

  Esma bit back on the little yelp that had formed on her lips. Instead, she stared into his eyes. “Careful, asshole. You’re the hired help and I think it important you remember that, or you might wake up one morning to find a knife sticking out of your back.”

  He gave her a hard shove with his arm, hard enough to turn the previous pain into breath-stealing agony that radiated through her and twisted her face. His lips curved up as she let out a few puffs of breath. A heartbeat, maybe two, before he gripped her by her arm and pulled her forward with him, up the stairs.

  Rusya was standing in the doorway of his office when they arrived. He looked like shit – wearing what he was wearing last night, unshaven, his eyes bloodshot. She’d never seen him like this, even after the crash he seemed more together.

  “I have to pee.” She tried for Siberia winter frost in her tone. Thought she got pretty fucking close to succeeding.

  Rusya closed his eyes for a few seconds, then, “Go. Five minutes then get back here.”

  She yanked her arm out of Eduard’s grip and glared at him before walking away to the bathroom. Once inside, she peed, washed up and ran her fingers through her mess of hair. Fuck! “Fuck!” she screamed, slammed her hands on the counter, gripped the sink until she felt settled. One last deep exhale and then she exited, walked down the hall and into Rusya’s study.

  He wasn’t alone.

  A man sat in her chair, her usual one and Rusya was at his spot on the couch. Rusya glanced up when he heard her enter. “Close the door,” he snapped. “And come sit on the sofa with me.”

  She whipped the door shut, satisfied at the loud thud. Then stormed over and threw herself on the couch next to Rusya. “Who are you?” she said belligerently as she stared at the man in her chair. “A fucking assassin, here to finish the job?”

  He held her gaze with watchful eyes, then they flicked to Rusya, maybe expecting an introduction. When none was forthcoming, he said, “I’m Dr. Richard McClean. A counsellor.”

  “What kind of a counsellor?” Then to Rusya, “What’s going on?”

  Rusya shifted. “Richard is a marriage counsellor. Janice recommended him.”

  She stared at Rusya trying to process what he’d said. “Are you kidding? You lock me up in the basement last night and you think I need counselling?”

  Rusya looked pained, tired. “Esma, I wanted to beat you to death last night. And worse, I think you wanted me to hit you.”

  That was pretty fucking deep for Rusya. “Why the fuck would I want that?”

  He shook his head as he threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know, Esma. You tell me.”

  The volume of their voices was escalating, but they both clamped their mouths shut as Janice entered with a tray in hand. She wordlessly brought it over to the coffee table and set it down. She poured coffee from the carafe into three cups, added a little cream to Esma’s and looked her squarely in the eyes as she placed it in front of her. She also laid out a glass of orange juice, a scrambled egg bun and a bowl of fresh strawberries – breakfast for Esma. She unloaded the rest of the tray – cream, sugar, some muffins, napkins and plates. Dropped two tablets in Rusya’s hand. Then picked up the tray.

  She stopped on her way to the door, turned back towards them, her voice scolding. “Both of you have a baby to think about. Remember that please.”

  Then she left. Esma felt a sliver of guilt wash over her as she picked up the coffee and took a sip. Janice was mad at her, mad at both of them. For some reason Esma didn’t want Janice to be cross with her.

  The doctor leaned forward, took his coffee in hand and added some cream. Then he sat back. “Let’s start with the biggest issue.” His eyes settled on Rusya. “You locked Esma up?”

  Esma suppressed a smirk as she took another little sip of coffee.

  Rusya nodded as he picked up his cup, popped the tablets into his mouth and washed them down with a gulp of the coffee.

  “Why?”

  He turned his glare on the man and then moved his eyes off his face. Maybe remembering the doctor’s purpose. “She was deliberately goading me. She betrayed me, held information from me, and then disrespected me.”

  “That’s why you locked her up?”

  “No. I locked her up so I wouldn’t hit her.” Then he turned to Esma. “Which is what you were trying to get me to do.”

  Esma had her mouth full of bun and couldn’t immediately respond. Dr. McClean used that to his advantage. “Is that true, Esma? Were you trying to goad him into hitting you?”

  She swallowed, took a sip of the orange juice as she thought about the fight. “Maybe.”

  “Why?” Rusya and Dr. McClean said in unison.

  She felt ganged up on for a moment and then let it go. She was tired of fighting, tired of the battle, of the war. Maybe it was time to throw in the white flag. “I don’t know.”

  “Has it served a purpose for you in the past?” Dr. McClean didn’t look at her when he asked, kept his eyes on his cup. Letting her have a moment, she guessed.

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Who hit you Esma?”

  “Rusya did.”

  She saw a flicker of guilt on Rusya’s face, a ripple of anger perhaps at the memory of why he hit her. She dropped her eyes. “My father, my first husband.”

  “How often?”

  She shrugged. Fuck, on her list of things she never wanted to talk about, this was at the top. It’s why she fucking drank. She took a bite of her bun, chewed, trying to outwait the doctor. But it was like he and Rusya went to the same school of patience. “My dad, sometimes. Husband, all the time.”

  “And Rusya”

  “Once.” And then she found herself feeling defensive of Rusya. “That was different though.”

  “In what way?”

  She glanced at Rusya. She didn’t know how much she should say. “Just different.”

  McClean let it go. “Can you tell us a little about your time with your first husband.”

  She was holding the bun in her hand, her fingers squishing the bread. She felt her heart beating in her throat, felt the panic. Remembered why she
drank, so she didn’t have to remember. She shook her head.

  “It’s okay. Maybe some other time. Maybe you and me.”

  The silence lingered and what little food she had eaten sat heavy in her stomach. McClean shifted, took a sip of coffee, not quite ready to alter direction. “Did you deserve the beatings?”

  She and Rusya gaped at the doctor. “What kind of a fucking question is that?” Rusya growled, and Esma felt emotional at how defensive he’d become of her.

  But the doctor, to his credit, didn’t cower. Much. “I’m interested in hearing what Esma thinks.”

  She set the plate she’d been holding down on the coffee table and clasped her hands together as she drew her legs up under her on the couch. “I’m not really the passive type. I don’t like being told what to do.”

  “So every time you’ve been hit, you’ve deserved it?”

  She mulled over his question. The few times Rusya had mishandled her, yes. When Jackman hit her after the plane crash, probably. And her first husband. She could be a real bitch, wouldn’t back down or do as he said. But other times… “Sometimes maybe I didn’t.”

  “But sometimes, yes?”

  Rusya let a out low growl even as Esma nodded.

  McClean ignored Rusya, leaned past him, towards Esma. “What do you think of this statement, Esma? There is never a reason a man should hit a woman.”

  Esma glanced at Rusya who had his head bent down, chin to chest, eyes to the coffee cup between his hands.

  “Maybe sometimes,” she whispered.

  “Like when?”

  She looked at Rusya again. Then back to the doctor. Her throat was starting to close up. “I’m not a very good person.” She felt the tears spill out of her eyes. Rusya turned to her, brushed the hair from her face, ran a thumb over her cheek, wiping at the tears. Making her heart beat a little faster.

  Then McClean again, ruining the moment. “What makes you not a good person?”

  She shrugged. She wanted this conversation to stop. This shouldn’t be about her anyway. The biggest issue was that Rusya locked her up in the basement. Isn’t that what McClean said? “I don’t know.”

  McClean nodded. “Does Rusya love you?”

  She looked up at Rusya, then over to the doctor. Nodded. “He said he did.”

  The doctor shifted his eyes to Rusya. “Do you?”

  Rusya answered Rusya-style, spare and to the point. “Yes.”

  “Esma, do you love him? Do you love Rusya?”

  Of course she loved him. “I guess so.”

  The doctor grinned. “Maybe not this morning so much, hey? But other times? Do you love him sometimes?”

  Esma nodded again, flashed a hint of a grin. “Sometimes.”

  Chapter 69

  Rusya felt the thrill of Esma’s admission. But it was short-lived when McClean asked Esma, “What is it about Rusya that makes him different from the other men in your life?”

  Stupid fucking question that pissed him off. He didn’t want to hear about the other men in her life.

  Then she said, “He makes me cry.” And his anger turned to guilt.

  “He makes you cry?”

  Esma picked up her orange juice, took a small sip, then wrapped her small hands around the glass. “I don’t cry. Not since I was a child. No tears.” She looked up at McClean with serious eyes. “Weird, huh?”

  McClean nodded. “A little. You and I should explore that, but not today. Why does Rusya make you cry?”

  Esma glanced from McClean to Rusya and back again. Leaned towards the doctor, almost past Rusya, and said in hushed tone, “Because he’s a fucking prick.”

  For fuck sake’s, Rusya thought, his anger solidly back in place, but he pressed his lips together and held on to it. McClean looked neither affronted nor surprised. “He’s the only fucking prick in your life? Up until now I mean. Your father, ex-husband…”

  “Dead husband,” Esma corrected.

  “Dead husband. Were they fucking pricks too?”

  “Yeah.” Esma nodded. “Most men are.” Then added, for McClean’s sake, “No offence.”

  Rusya dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head. It was okay to offend him but not the good doctor.

  McClean grinned. “None taken. You’re probably right.”

  Esma cracked a wide grin that made Rusya’s heart stutter as he remembered the first few days after he hired her. She was always smiling then. He wondered where she could find the joy that bubbled out of her when her life had been so damaging.

  McClean said, “Then what are the reasons, Esma. Why does Rusya make you cry?”

  Esma’s smile dropped off her face. “I keep making him mad. I do stupid things, say stuff I shouldn’t.” Her face reddened and he saw the tears in her eyes. “He doesn’t trust me. And that’s fair.” Her voice cracked and her last words squeaked out. “I don’t want to lose him.”

  Her eyes were down, focused on the orange juice in her hand. Rusya didn’t know what to say, but then McClean turned to him, fucking prick. Esma was right.

  “What’s different about Esma, Rusya?”

  He glared at the doctor, until McClean dropped his eyes. But McClean was better at the long silences than he was. The fuck! He reached out, tugged at Esma’s hair. Tried to run his fingers through it. Got stuck and she had to put her glass down and help him extract his hand. He grinned. Then he knew. “She makes me smile, laugh.”

  Esma glanced up at him, not surprised. She knew that.

  Rusya waited for the next fucking question, already knowing what it was going to be. “What about Esma is different from everyone else? Why does she make you smile?”

  Rusya hated all this touchy-feely bullshit. He was going to have a long talk with Janice later today, or tomorrow… or sometime. He shrugged, looked at Esma, not the doctor. “She has a smile that lights up her face and I can’t imagine how anyone cannot respond to that. Her curls.” Rusya saw her little grin and he kept finding more and more reasons. “She’s unpredictable, she’s pure mischief. She’s contrary.”

  “So are you,” Esma said quickly.

  Rusya nodded, didn’t disagree. “Only with you though. No one else contradicts me.”

  Esma nodded and it got quiet again.

  McClean studied the two of them. “Do the two of you ever talk?”

  They looked at the counsellor. At each other. Talk? Rusya spoke for them. “It’s not a strength of ours.”

  “Why not? You’re married, you have a baby on the way. You must think of things you’d like to say to each other. Why don’t you say them out loud?”

  “I think… because…” Rusya paused, then, “We end up this way.”

  The doctor shifted, leaned forward. “Why don’t you try to not get mad at the other when you’re talking. So if Esma pushes you, Rusya, don’t push back. And Esma, if Rusya pushes you, don’t push back.”

  “I can’t,” they both said.

  “Try.” Dr. McClean took a last sip of coffee, then stood. “Sorry, I can’t stay. I have other appointments. I’ll come back next week if you want me to. Have Janice call to set up a real appointment and we can talk longer.”

  Then to Rusya, he said, “Would you mind walking me out.”

  When Rusya returned, he reclaimed his spot next to Esma, poured more coffee into their cups and passed Esma’s to her. For a few minutes they simply sat side by side on the couch, both taking sips of their coffee.

  Finally, Esma said, “A marriage counsellor? Really Rusya?”

  Rusya pressed his palm against his forehead, the soothing coolness of it helping with his headache. “Janice is upset with me for locking you in the basement. I’ve never known her to be so… verbal. She insisted we get someone to mediate between us.”

  “And what did the good doctor say to you upon his departure?”

  Rusya studied Esma, her brown eyes filled with intelligence. Wondered if he should say, then thought perhaps it needed saying. “He’s concerned about you and would like to start
seeing you regularly.”

  Esma took offence. “Why me?”

  Rusya looked down at this cup, struggled with the words. “He says you haven’t dealt with your past.”

  Esma huffed and Rusya stopped her with his hand. “Those aren’t my words, they’re McClean’s.”

  She set her coffee cup down on the table with a small bang, shoved her back against the couch and crossed her arms. But said nothing. Waited.

  Rusya nodded to himself. Get this the fuck out before it turns into another brawl. “He worries that you think you’re responsible for the actions, reactions of other’s towards you. He said that maybe you tried to provoke me into hitting you and when I wouldn’t, it scared you.”

  “Why the fuck would it scare me?”

  Rusya put his cup on the table too, and turned to her, bringing a hand to her leg, running it down her thigh. “He says you were testing me.” He stopped. He didn’t know where to go next. “That’s all. He thinks we need to talk more and even if we don’t see him again as a couple, he still wants to see you regularly.”

  Esma shook her head, rolled her eyes to the ceiling. But she said, “Maybe.”

  Rusya exhaled. Relief perhaps that she didn’t try to kick him in the nuts.

  She ran a hand across her face, rubbed at her eyes. “What now?”

  He thought he should suggest a shower, some sleep, but there were still more words that needed saying and too often he didn’t say them. He took her hand, cradled it in his palm, stared at it. Her wedding ring, shiny and bright against her warm skin made his heart ache with love. “I don’t make it a habit of hitting women. Or throwing them. Or throttling them.”

  Esma snorted. “You don’t have to Rusya. Most women are terrified of you.”

  “But not you, Esma. Not even from the beginning. Not even when you said you were.”

  Esma looked down at her hand in his. Watched as he ran his fingers up hers. “What good does fear do anyone?”