Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 33

YOM

Yom attempted to let Lydia go.

He was way off the new plan, and she was obviously upset by his sudden, uninvited appearance at her brother’s birthday party.

Rustanov men were raised to do whatever they wished without caring what anyone else thought. But even Yom was aware he was coming off as psychotic.

So, he watched her rush away, gripping the still-full flute of champagne she’d blindly thrust at him before escaping to the toilets outside the ballroom.

“And I’m not sure what Mount Nik’s offering his players these days,” Lydia’s father continued, as if his daughter hadn’t just run out of their conversation, “but you should know the Raptors are prepared to offer you a handsome signing bonus. Especially if you save us from having to bend over for a draft pick.”

“Darling, language!” his wife chided with a tittering laugh rather than follow her obviously upset daughter to see if there was anything she could do to help.

Yom was beginning to understand why Lydia was the way she was—unaware of her unique beauty, exceptional personality, and many alluring traits. With parents like these, it would have been impossible to develop even the smallest ego.

But. He would not follow her. He would not.

Yom clenched his teeth and pretended to listen to Lydia’s father drone on about a possible move to the Raptors—a decision Yom had already made.

And he took a bit of pride in waiting a counted-down thirty seconds before glancing toward the ballroom doors to check for Lydia.

Of course, she hadn’t returned from the bathroom yet. But he did catch a glimpse of Paul slipping through those same doors.

Perhaps the timing was a coincidence. Perhaps…

To his credit, Yom gave that possibility a whole two beats of consideration before shoving the champagne flute in their blathering patriarch’s hand with a flat, “Excuse me.”

Did he feel silly stalking toward the men’s room to make sure Paul was headed there? How could he not?

However, that quiet alarm going off in the back of his head rose a few decibels when he found the men’s toilets empty.

Paul could have taken the elevators to another location.

Perhaps.

But just in case, Yom crept into the women’s toilets. Fortunately, the design of this particular space included a long hallway leading toward the stalls. There was a chance he could take a peek and sneak out without Lydia ever know⁠—

“Paul, c’mon, you’re drunk.”

Lydia sounded bright and sunny, but there was an underlying tension in her tone that Yom did not like as he hung back in the hallway.

“Let’s just… let’s just go back to the party.”

“No, you fucking bitch. Always trying to fuck me!” Paul answered, his words slurring with what sounded like copious amounts of alcohol. “First in Berlin. Now here in Chicago, on my own goddamn birthday!”

“That’s right. It’s your birthday party. You don’t want to create a scene. Just… just let me by, okay?”

There came a few tip-tapping clicks, as if Lydia was attempting to run.

But then, those clicks were abruptly cut off by a ripping sound.

“Oh my God, Paul. My dress. Why would you⁠—”

“You trying to replace me in this family? That’s your plan? That’s why you’ve been throwing your pussy at Rustanov all semester? Thinking you’re going to fucking replace me?!”

Those words were enough to get Yom’s feet moving. Maybe it wasn’t his place to interfere in a family argument. Yet. But he refused to let her brother speak to her that way.

“Where are these accusations even coming from?” Lydia started to ask. Then suddenly she said, “No, Paul, don’t!”

Yom’s heart dropped to his feet when she cut off again, this time with a choking gasp.

But nothing compared to what happened inside his body when he reached the main part of the restroom. There was Lydia, her dress torn, her strapless bra exposed, pressed against the tile wall beside the towel dispenser. Paul’s forearm wedged against her throat.

Paul. Lydia. The toilets. The entire world suddenly blanked out.

“Yom! Yom! Oh my God, please stop.”

Some unknown amount of time later, Yom dimly registered that he was now kneeling on the floor. Paul lay beneath him, head lolling, face a bloody mess, his straight patrician nose jagged and broken. Somewhere in the distance, Yom sensed Lydia trying to get his attention.

But he couldn’t respond.

He had gone to his bad place. The dark, cold Rustanov place that his Uncle Alexei warned him to avoid when it came to this entitled gandon, Paul Carrington.

It didn’t matter that Paul was barely conscious.

The world had turned the same color as his motherland’s former flag.

Yom would kill him….

“Yom!”

Kill him for touching her… For hurting her.

“Yom, no!”

How many times? How many times had this worthless suka touched her? Hurt her?

Yom punched the heap of dog shit beneath him again. No more lolling. He—no, this ublyudok did not deserve respectful pronouns. It passed out cold.

“Oh my God, Yom, you have to stop.”

Dark, ugly thoughts dropped down like hammers and sickles inside Yom’s head as he raised his fist to end Paul Carrington’s life with another blow.

But something snagged his arm before he could mete out that final justice.

Nyet, not something. Someone. He looked up from the soon-to-be carcass to replace Lydia pulling back on his arm with all her weight.

“Please, please stop!” she pleaded, tears streaming down her face.

And that was what—the only thing that could have—stilled his fist. Not her small weight pulling on his arm. Not her pleas for this worthless ublyudok’s life.

Her tears.

He wanted to kill Paul. But not as much as he didn’t want to hurt her.

He lowered his arm and rose to his feet, leaving the blond male crumpled on the ground.

Somewhere in the foreground, Lydia bent down to check the ublyudok’s pulse. He must have still had one. Her next words were, “Oh, thank God,” before she quickly pulled her phone out of a wristlet clutch Yom hadn’t noticed before.

He was still alive.

Yom had failed to do his job—to truly protect her. Paul should be dead. Yom should be calmly phoning Suro Nakamura, his Uncle Alexei’s best friend, who was often called upon by the Rustanovs for “clean up.” Suro lived in Chicago with his American wife and family.

“Hi, Dad. You told me to call you, not the police, the next time Paul…”

Lydia’s words faded.

She appeared in front of him, clutching her torn dress to cover her strapless bra. “Dad wants us to go before the paramedics get here.”

In the back of his mind, he thought to encourage her to leave by herself so he could…

“I’m not leaving without you,” she said before he could finish that thought.

Chyort.

He let Lydia lead him out of the women’s restroom instead of killing her adopted brother.

There was a walk to an elevator after that, and then, suddenly, they entered a dimly lit room with a carry-on suitcase lying open on the bed.

“Sit there,” Lydia instructed, pointing to the edge of the bed. “I’m going to replace something for your hand.”

Only then did he realize his knuckles were torn and already swelling. His skin was split open, and the back of his right hand was starting to bruise. This was why his Uncle Bair had advised about always carrying at least a pair of thin gloves to throw on just in case he had to engage in physical combat. Yom had forgotten that golden rule.

He sat down in a daze and looked around what appeared to be the most standard room the Benton Grand had on offer. No city view. Just the main bedroom space and a bathroom.

He had the penthouse suite reserved at the Tourmaline Chicago. They could and should head there.

But first, he had to go quiet and still… quiet and still… as he waited for the rage to ebb from his body.

“Okay, maybe this will help for now.” Lydia was back. Barefoot and redressed in a nightshirt. Coming to stand between his legs, she yanked his hand up to press a cold towel to it. “If this doesn’t help, I’ll run down to the store to get, like, bandages or something. I’m not sure what exactly to do here. I might have to watch a YouTube tutorial.”

The cold towel helped. Yom did not like that. He wanted the pain, the burning reminder that he’d left the job undone.

“I don’t know whether to thank you for defending me or yell at you for going way too far,” she grumbled.

Let me kill him, Yom begged silently. Even in this state, he realized saying the words out loud would upset her.

So he said nothing at all, just let a tense silence gather between them as she pressed the towel into his knuckles.

“Yom—” Her voice cracked. “Seriously, I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

Yom took the towel from her and set it aside.

Then wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her close, resting his pounding head against her stomach as a sudden weariness washed over him.

He could only hope—pray—she wouldn’t push him away.

She didn’t. She let him rest there, stroking a hand through his hair. There would be no need for her to run to the store, he thought as he nuzzled his head into her touch. This was the only medicine he needed.

Quiet and still and Lydia.

But then he had to ask, had to know, “Is this first time he hurt you?”

“Um…”

Lydia’s voice shook. She wasn’t like him. She had a moral compass. Yom could almost hear the debate going on inside her head about whether or not to lie.

“He’s gotten angry with me before.”

So that was a yes. Dark thoughts churned in his mind.

“Promise me you won’t hurt Paul when I’m not looking,” she said, cutting into his murderous thoughts.

Yom wouldn’t—couldn’t promise that. He raised his head to look up at her and patiently waited until she realized that truth for herself.

Her pleading expression was eventually replaced by a terrible, horrified look.

“Yom.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “You can’t do stuff like this. You can’t act like a psychopath and make me feel stupid—I mean, totally delulu—for falling in love with you.”

Yom froze.

Those words.

Those words brought Yom out of his killing stupor and cleared his head.

“Lydia.” He stared up at her, his heart thundering in his chest. “You love me?”