Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 9

Please, Universe! Pretty, pretty please!

My heart thundered as I silently prayed to the Universe to not let Artyom Freaking Rustanov sit next to me. Please, just this one time, have my⁠—

Artyom Rustanov settled into the empty seat next to mine before I could even finish begging the Universe to have my back, displacing the air around me and completely changing the room’s energy with the electric charge of his unexpected hockey-star presence.

“What are you even doing here?” I lowered my voice to demand. Though, I shouldn’t have bothered.

All the other students had fallen into shocked silence, so the question about why he’d shown up at Clara Quinn’s seminar of all places traveled across the small space as loudly as if I’d shouted it into a megaphone.

Artyom had the nerve to lazily swivel his head toward me and blink, as if he’d just noticed me sitting there.

“I cannot like these Black lady authors, too?” he asked with a smirk.

Confrontation really wasn’t my thing. Like, at all. But I flared my eyes at him, beyond outraged.

“Who do you think you’re fooling?” I began to ask.

“Hello, hello, students!”

Before I could finish, a resonant voice filled the air, and a heavyset Black woman with a tapered burgundy fro swept into the room.

“I am here, and so are you! Hello, my dearest acolytes. I am Clara Quinn.”

Clara Quinn, our seminar professor and arguably the most popular African American sci-fi fantasy writer in the entire world, moved to stand behind the chair at the head of the table.

But even her swanning arrival wasn’t enough to dislodge many of the students’ eyes from Artyom. Seriously, why was he here?

My mood remained tense as our highly esteemed teacher recited her bio word-for-word from the back of her books. Then she commanded us to do the same.

“Now, you may go around and introduce yourselves. We’ll need your name, your major, and your favorite Clara Quinn book. Please keep in mind that I am not at all respectful of your generation mores. You may call me Ms. Quinn or Professor Quinn, or you may keep my name out of your mouth.”

That announced, she started with the student directly to her right, a White accounting major named Rina with a buzzcut who told Ms. Quinn that her favorite book was The Winter Fae.

“My last book. Got it? And you, young man?” Ms. Quinn asked, moving on to a Black guy with a neon-pink fade.

“Oh, most definitely, The Autumn Fae!” he answered before introducing himself as a double Psych/African American studies major.

By the time the introductions reached me at the other end of the conference table, we were all laughing because, so far, all of our favorite books were either The Summer Fae, The Autumn Fae, or The Winter Fae from her popular Seasons of the Fae series.

“Hey, I’m Lydia.” I gave the class a friendly cross-body wave, leaving out my last name as I always did unless pressed. “I’m getting my bachelor’s degree in social work, and like many others, The Summer Fae had me hooked from page one.”

I couldn’t stop myself from launching into full gush mode. “I ordered the rest of the series before I was even done with the first chapter, and I didn’t stop until The Winter Fae was done.”

I clasped my hands to my chest to tell her, “Ms. Quinn, can I just say you are my absolute favorite writer of all time? I seriously can’t wait for The Spring Fae—though I’m also so scared about what will happen when Mariella discovers that her sisters have been lying to her all along about her new husband’s true identity.”

Nods and murmurs of agreement met my total fangirl comments, letting me know that this would totally be my kind of class, despite my initial misgivings. That made me bold enough to ask, “Do you know when that will be released?”

Wrong question.

Ms. Quinn’s expression tightened, and instead of answering, she cut her eyes to the person I’d almost forgotten was sitting next to me.

Her brow arched. “And you, young man? I, of all people, should know better than to judge a book by its cover. The rumor is cover judgment is the only thing that kept me from winning the Hugo back in 2001. But I highly doubt you’re a ‘Seasons of the Fae’ fan.”

Once again, all eyes returned to the hockey player in our mostly fangirl midst, and I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d get out of being put on the spot by Clara Quinn herself.

“You are correct,” he confessed. “I am never reading any of the ‘Seasons of the Fae’ books.”

There wasn’t one look of surprise to be had around the table.

“Then why are you taking this class?” She squinted. “Please tell me you’re not one of those walking stereotypes who believe taking a course like this is an easy way to meet girls.”

“You are correct,” he answered with a careless shrug, and a collective gasp went up that he’d boldly admit his ulterior motives.

But then he frowned and said, “Sorry, that is not correct wording. English is my third language.”

Artyom sat up a little straighter in his chair. “You were correct–this is what I mean to say. You were correct when you said you were robbed of Hugo. The Galaxy at the Universe’s End is my favorite book by you, Ms. Quinn. And I wonder to myself often when you will finish this series.”

Instead of looking annoyed this time, Clara Quinn’s lips twisted into a pleased smile. “That book’s my personal favorite, too. But unfortunately, the publishing powers only want Fae books from me. That’s what sells these days.”

She heaved a weary sigh, then turned to the heavily pierced brown-skinned woman with a curly neon-green mohawk sitting on the other side of Artyom.

“And you, young lady? Let me guess, The Autumn Fae?”

“Hell yeah!” the co-ed answered, throwing up devil horns—probably to represent the underworld Fae villain who became the unexpected hero of Book 2, only to die more tragically than a sincere Game of Thrones character in Book 3.

Without thinking about it, I glanced at Artyom to see how he was reacting to everyone in the class preferring Clara Quinn’s Fae books to her sci-fi adventures—at least, I meant to shoot him a quick look. My eyes crashed right into his, and I found myself magnetized by his malevolent gray gaze.

He hated me, and judging from his stone-cold expression, he wanted me to know it.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut, and my stomach churned with the weight of my guilt. Of course, he hated me. After everything that happened in Berlin, he had every right to. I’d tried to drug him. And worse, I had accepted his tenderness—his kindness—only to bolt like a coward, leaving no explanation in my wake. The thought of it sent a nauseating pang of shame ricocheting through me.

The rest of the students’ responses faded into the background, and the next two hours were an excruciating frying pan of anxiety. I didn’t dare to look Artyom’s way again, but I could feel his gaze sweeping over me like a brand, searing his silent condemnation into my skin.

Was it normal to actually feel it when someone disliked you? I’d spent my entire life trying to be a people-pleaser, so I wouldn’t have known until now.

Until Artyom Rustanov.

What felt like years later, Clara Quinn finally dismissed us with a dire warning that she’d consider it a personal insult against both herself and her hero, Octavia Butler, if any of us came in next Tuesday without having finished Dawn.

“See you next Tuesday,” Artyom said with an amused sneer.

My heart stuttered as a terrible suspicion flickered to life. No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

“Did you…?” I shook my head, struggling to reconcile my growing suspicion with the part of me that always assumed I wasn’t worth that much attention. “Did you take this class just to fuck with me? Because of what happened in Berlin?”

Instead of answering, Artyom just stood up. Then he sauntered out of the classroom, casually, as if he hadn’t just completely wrecked the first day of the class I’d been so looking forward to—so obviously on purpose!

Anger surged hot and fast, erasing the guilt that had weighed me down just moments ago. Before I could think better of it, I raced to catch up with him in the hallway, my pulse pounding in my ears.

“What the hell, Artyom?” I had to jog to keep up with his long stride, and I cursed myself for already breaking my New Year’s resolution to go to the gym more often. I was breathless by the time I followed up with, “What do you think you’re doing, just showing up in my seminar? Is this, like, some kind of head game you’re trying to play with me?”

He didn’t answer, just walked even faster toward the building’s outer doors.

But I refused to let him get away with this. I was so confused and pissed at that point, I was perfectly willing to chase him out of the building if that’s what it took to get my answers.

“And did you have anything to do with what happened to Julz’s arm?” I demanded, running to keep up with him just as he reached the door. “Because if you did, that’s so messed⁠—”

Instead of reaching for the door’s push handle, he body-checked me into a small alcove I hadn’t even noticed when I first walked into the building.

Suddenly, I had a cold, narrow window at my back and an even icier Artyom Rustanov at my front. “Did you really think there would be no consequences for your actions? You are fucking me over, Lydia.”

He placed a hand on the wall on either side of my head, trapping me against the window. “You are fucking me over so Paul Carrington can win some bet. How are you thinking this school year will go after that?”

So he knew.… My heart jumped into my throat. But I swallowed it down to ask, “How did you replace out?”

“How do you think I am replaceing out?” He sneered at me. “Are you believing Paul Carrington would not come bragging to me after the game—rubbing my face in humiliation for letting you get inside my head?”

Oh, Paul. I closed my eyes, then opened them again to face the hurt guy in front of me. “He shouldn’t have done that. He’s always been quick to brag, but this time, he took it too far.”

Artyom looked me up and down with that hateful sneer. “He is not only one who took things too far in Berlin.”

“I know, you’re right,” I answered, shaking my head. “And I’m sorry. You wouldn’t believe how sorry I am for my actions. I was trying to help out Paul, but I realized too late that hurting you wasn’t the way to do it. I can’t believe Paul had the nerve to come to you about it afterward. That kind of behavior is why I decided to go no-contact with him after Berlin.”

Artyom jerked his head back, confusion lacing through his scowl. “You are not talking to Paul Carrington anymore.”

“No, I’m not—I mean, maybe he doesn’t know that because his head stays up his own ass, but I haven’t spoken to him since Berlin.” My voice cracked as I stumbled over the words, but I forced myself to keep going. “And I know that doesn’t excuse what I did to you, but I’m sorry—truly, sincerely, so, so sorry—that I didn’t just tell him hell no when he came to me with that stupid, stupid plan to, like, seduce and drug a Rustanov.”

Artyom’s eyes narrowed, raking over my face as if he was dissecting every syllable, every twitch, every crack in my explanation. He stepped closer, his presence looming like a thundercloud. My stomach churned, but I stayed rooted, refusing to shrink, even as the distance between us dissolved.

“You are truly, sincerely, so, so sorry,” he said, his voice dropping to a quiet, soft murmur.

He let the words hang there, suspended between us like a loaded gun.

“But I am Rustanov,” he reminded me, his tone becoming ice frozen over concrete. “And Rustanovs do not forgive.”

Before I could process the cold finality of his words, he leaned forward, so close I could feel the heat of his breath against my ear. A shiver ran down my spine as his voice dropped to a rasp—intimate, yet laced with venom.

“You are earning yourself true enemy, and this Rustanov will spend rest of last year at this American university making your life truly, sincerely, so, so miserable.”

“Holy toxic masculinity! This Rustanov bitch is straight-up cray-cray!” Trish twirled a finger next to her lobe after I finished telling her and Claudia the story over lunch. “Then what happened after he said that?”

“Nothing!” I answered, my heart still trembling with dread and regret. “He just pushed off the wall and walked away like a big ol’ Bond villain—y’know, if Bond villains wore Gucci backpacks.”

“Ooh, how does he like it?” Claudia asked, proving her relationship with my earth-mama best friend was truly a case of opposites attracting. “I was thinking of asking my parents for one for graduation. But then I was like, is it a little too subtle? Maybe I should get a Dior so people actually know I’m rocking a designer backpack….”

She trailed off when she saw how her girlfriend and I were staring at her—then cleared her throat to reset with, “But seriously, I can’t believe he cornered you like that! Not cool!”

“Yeah, not cool!” Trish flared her eyes angrily at Claudia before turning back to me. “You’ve got to report him!”

“Uh, don’t know if that’s a great idea.” Claudia grimaced and sucked in air between her back teeth. “Like, everybody on the sports side of things knows you don’t cross a Rustanov. Trust me, he’s gotten away with a lot worse over the years than telling a girl she pissed him off. And you know there’s talk of the men’s team going all the way to the USCA championship this year.”

“So what are you trying to say?” Trish shook her head at Claudia. “That we should sit by and do nothing? He more than said he was pissed off. He used his body to intimidate her. And he basically threatened her!”

“Yeah, yeah, I totally get where you’re coming from, babe,” Claudia agreed, though her expression remained hesitant. “I’m just saying, it might be easier for Lyds to drop out of the Clara Quinn class.”

“I can’t do that,” I said quickly at the same time Trish insisted, “She can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Claudia dared to ask, already bracing for her girlfriend’s fiery answer.

Which she got.

“Because Clara Quinn is a fucking icon of literature and Black Excellence,” Trish said, gesturing emphatically. “And my best friend isn’t going to let some entitled prick make her miss out on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity because he can’t regulate his emotions!”

“Okay, okay! I get it!” Claudia held up her hands. “Keep the class, but other than that, you need to stay as far away from him as possible. If there’s any chance he could be there, you need to be somewhere else. I was planning on dragging Trish to the men’s hockey game tonight. But Lydia, you definitely shouldn’t tag along.”

“Psshh, that’s easy,” Trish answered with a wave of her hand. “You know I’m not looking to sit in that refrigerator of a stadium if you’re not playing, and neither is Lyds.”

She laughed, confident in her assessment of my willingness to skip tonight’s game.

But then she saw my face.

“Right, Lyds?” she pressed, scrunching her forehead.

“Um…” My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my napkin as a knot tightened in my stomach. “Actually, about that….”