Page 75 of Sexting the Pakhan

“I didn’t ask for one.”

“That is not comforting.”

“What did he do?” he asks again.

I sigh and look at the water. “Nothing dramatic. That was the worst part. He didn’t cheat. He didn’t steal my money. He didn’t hit me. He just slowly made me feel like I was too much and not enough at the same time.”

Ruslan’s jaw shifts.

I laugh softly, uncomfortable now that I’ve started. “He used to call me intense when I cared about things. Dramatic when I got hurt. Sensitive when he was cruel. And I stayed because I thought if I became easier, smaller, less annoying, he’d love me properly.”

The wind blows my hair into my face. I push it back.

“Then one day he told me he didn’t see a future with me, and I realized I had already packed myself away for a future he never planned to give me.”

Ruslan says nothing.

I keep going because stopping now feels worse. “So I moved. Got a job at Alderwood. Rented a tiny apartment I could barely afford. Bought secondhand furniture. Made friends with Karina because she cornered me in the break room and said I looked like a Victorian ghost who needed tacos.”

That gets a real sound from him. Almost a laugh. “She sounds accurate.”

“She’s awful and I love her.”

“And your parents?”

I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my sweater. “My mother is a second-grade teacher. My father fixes boats. They live two hours north in a town where everyone knows everyone and half the people still think I’m sixteen. They love me. A lot. Too much sometimes.”

“You haven’t told them.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because my mother will come here with a rolling pin and my father will bring a wrench, and both of them will die immediately because they are brave and normal and have no idea what men like yours can do.”

He doesn’t deny it. I wish he would.

After a minute, he says, “I can put men on them.”

My head snaps toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“They could be watched discreetly.”

“No.”

“Zoya—”

“No. You don’t get to turn my parents into part of your… infrastructure.”

His brows lift slightly. “Infrastructure?”

“I don’t know mafia terminology. I’m improvising.”

That almost-smile comes back. “Fine,” he says.

I blink. “Fine?”

“For now.”