RUSLAN TUSHENTSOV|| CMH|| RUSLAN CMH

Continued in the protocol

Ruslan sat in his office, slumped in a leather chair, looking through documents. Or rather, trying to. His thoughts kept returning to her.

A modest girl working in a library. The daughter of a businessman who owed him a large sum and was now safely in pretrial detention, leaving his daughter to deal with the consequences.

When his men brought her in a month ago, she was shaking like a leaf. Her eyes were wide and frightened, her gray cardigan buttoned up to the top. Ruslan had chuckled then—another gray mouse. But duty is duty, and until her father resolves the matter, the girl will live in his house. A hostage. No other options.

"You'll live here, " he said then . "A room on the second floor. No connection with the outside world. Understood?"

She just nodded, without looking up. And blushed. Deeply, right down to the roots of her hair.

Ruslan was surprised. He was used to women throwing themselves at his neck with a snap of their fingers. But here, he blushed at a simple glance.

A week passed. He started taking her on "jobs." At first, it was just to get on her nerves—to let her see what kind of world she'd found herself in. He sat her on the couch in the corner of the warehouse while they were sorting out debtors. She closed her eyes and covered her ears with her hands. Ruslan laughed then, but something inside him twitched—she was so touching in her fear that he wanted to hide her. Wrap her in a blanket and carry her away from it all.

Then he tasked her with counting the money. Hundreds of thousands in bundles. She sat in his office, carefully arranging the bills, her fingers trembling slightly. From tension? From fear? Ruslan caught himself simply looking at her, forgetting about his business.

One evening, he sat across from her, lazily shuffling through papers. The heat was unbearable, and he unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, adjusting his collar. She looked up, saw his movement, and instantly turned red. From her neck to her hairline. She looked down at the papers, but her ears burned for another fifteen minutes.

Ruslan chuckled to himself. It was... cute? A strange word for his vocabulary.

And then that evening happened

They were sitting in the living room. Ruslan, tired after a hard day, reached for a cigarette, and automatically patted his pockets—there was no lighter. He was about to curse, but he held back. For some reason, he never cursed in front of her. It just didn't work.

She suddenly rose from the sofa. She approached quietly. She found a box of matches in her hands—where had she gotten them from? She struck one. The flame danced on the end of the match, illuminating her face. Her eyes were huge, serious. And her hand was shaking. Finely, finely

Ruslan froze. He looked at the flickering flame, at her slender fingers, at how she tried to hold the match steady, even though she was shaking all over. Something warm spread in his chest. Not lust. Not a desire to possess. But something else entirely. As if he saw a kitten trying to catch its tail for the first time.

He carefully covered her palm with his own, helping her light the cigarette. He took a drag. He blew the smoke to the side.

• Thank you

She nodded without looking up. And blushed again.

Ruslan suddenly realized: he would never harm her. And he wouldn't allow anyone to. He didn't care about the debt. He didn't care about her father. This girl, blushing at his mere glance, somehow became more important than any amount of money.

"You know what," he said quietly. "Your father's debt... is practically closed."

She raised her eyes, a mixture of distrust and hope in them.

“But you will stay here ,” he added softer than usual. “If you want, of course.”

Ruslan took another drag and awkwardly scratched the back of his head, looking somewhere past her.

THC: STOPPED CRAP LINK TO THC: https://t.me/ykurenayashval