Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 35

“Will I love you back?” Lydia repeated, staring up at Yom. For many moments, she looked at him like he was an idiot. Or a man who had lost his mind.

In other words, she stared up at him as if seeing him clearly for the first time.

Yom struggled beneath her silence, feeling each second drag. In hockey, you did not wait to make your play. If you thought the puck was slipping away, you chased it down, found every hole, pressed every advantage until the black disc was back on your stick.

An urge rose up to keep talking, to fill the silence. He wanted to tell her about the nights he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wishing she was beside him instead of down the hall.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say her moving in had been both heaven and hell. Heaven, because she belonged in his home. Hell, because not being able to touch her made him feel something he hadn’t since he was sent to boarding school and vowed never to need anyone’s company again: lonely.

But… love was not hockey.

The conversation with his Uncle Nikolai a little over a month ago, right before Lydia joined them in the living room, echoed in his mind.

“She does not know she is yours yet?” asked his uncle with a heavy frown.

“No, Uncle. She does not love me, so I tried to hate her. I said cruel things. Made her life bad. Became, as they say in English, bully.”

“How long did you punish her this way?”

“Two weeks… until I forgave her for lying to me in Berlin and pretending to want sex with another man.”

“Two weeks only? You are a true Rustanov in love. Our punishments do not last long, even when they lie to us,” Uncle Nikolai chuckled. “Consider this a fortunate family trait. Two weeks is nothing to make up for. Now your goal is clear: play her like a hockey game. Pursue her relentlessly. Give her no room to breathe until she is in your net.”

“What are you two discussing so intently?” Aunt Sam, who did not speak Russian, asked then. “All I understood was ‘bully.’”

“Believe me, Mom, you don’t want to know,” his cousin Ruthie, who spoke Russian, replied in English before switching back to her father’s native tongue. “Love isn’t hockey. You have to give her a little space. Otherwise, she’ll never figure out she likes you back.”

Uncle Nikolai frowned at his American daughter. “If I had given your mother any room to think, Rusha, you would not be here. Tyoma, I do not advise⁠—”

But Uncle Nikolai had fallen silent when Lydia reentered to talk with his family about P.M.’s adoption. Now, both Nikolai’s and Ruthie’s words echoed in Yom’s head as he waited for Lydia to tell him whether she loved him back.

He had gone out of his way to keep Lydia close, as his uncle advised. But Ruthie was right, too.

Love was not hockey.

So, Yom did not speak into her long silence. He had to let her breathe, to think as long as she needed about her answer—even if it wasn’t the one he wanted.

“Of course I love you back,” she said, breaking his spinning thoughts with a heavy sigh.

She loved him back?

Yom’s heart dropped like he were on a roller coaster—then soared. A wild feeling took over. The old loneliness drained away, replaced by something fierce and bright.

“But that’s not the point. I don’t know what you did to scare Tommy and his dad into skipping town, but you could have killed my broth⁠—”

Whatever point she had, Yom would never know. He was on her before she could finish, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her like he’d wanted to kiss her at the game. And keep kissing her.

He’d been waiting so long for her to think he was worthy. He’d imagined this moment would be a shy confession on her part, maybe over dinner.

He’d pictured them climbing the stairs to his room, unhurried, where he’d tell her to prove she was sure by undressing him.

In his many imaginings of their first coming together, he had seen his lips touching every patch of skin on her sweet body. Rediscovering the curves he’d been fantasizing about for weeks. Gently edging her until she gave him all kinds of promises—promises he’d make her keep. All night long.

But with this kiss, he knew in a fully consumed instant that only the “all night long” part of that vision would be possible for him.

Yom was burning alive as he devoured her mouth. Every thought in his head focused on one thing: claiming her. Getting inside her.

He pulled back from the kiss, offering her a silent apology. I am sorry. I cannot make the first time soft and nice for you.

Then he swept her suitcase off the bed, lifted her into the air, and threw her down on it.