Page 33 of Keeping Ruby

God, I’m a mess. A ruined, awful mess.

Two weeks is all it took for my body to crave him, to yearn for him so deeply, that I’m unable to find sleep alone.

I want to curse the man for this as I roll to my right side again, then back to my left five minutes later. Then, I wiggle into the center of the bed so I can sprawl out like a starfish. I hate it.

I’m no longer used to sleeping alone.

I’ve slept alone for twenty-three years. How can I have forgotten how to do this in the span of two weeks?

I’m so annoyed, a small, sharp cry slips from between my lips.

I miss home. I miss the comfort of my small, normal house. I miss the kitchen I could cook in at will. I miss my life.

Twisting for what must be the millionth time, I yank his pillow from its place at the head of the bed to wrap my body around it. It smells like him. Like cedar and flame. Sin.

My body relaxes, slightly, for the first time since I slipped between the sheets.

I’m on the edge of sleep, finally, when the door clicks open. Even though the room is dark, I don’t allow my eyes to open.

I’d rather him think I’m asleep and leave me alone—even though the idea of struggling through an entire night without him feels a little like how I imagine torture might feel.

I listen as he moves around the room, Simba in tow. I’ve wanted to ask about the dog’s curious name so many times, but asking is opening doors I’m not sure I want to open. He’s my husband, but getting to know him feels incredibly dangerous.

Awareness prickles my skin as he stops moving next to the bed. He’s standing on my side—the side furthest from the door. I can feel him looking down at me, and I just contain the shiver. I can’t, however, stop the gooseflesh that pebbles my skin. Hopefully, considering the dark, he can’t see it.

My eyes fly open when he lifts me easily from the bed, a little shriek falling between us.

“I knew you weren’t asleep.” He sounds awfully smug.

“Maybe I wasn’t. But I was close.” He grunts but doesn’t reply. I roll my eyes. “Put me down.”

“No.”

“Kirill,” I huff. “I don’t have this in me tonight.”

“Don’t have what in you, tonight?”

“You!”

“Wife, you haven’t had me in you any night.”

My confusion only lasts a moment before I gasp. “You’re despicable.”

“I’m a lot of things. Tonight, I’m irritated. And I’m fucking dangerous when I’m irritated, so I suggest you don’t push me.” I don’t reply as he stops at the always locked door. The fourth door.

Holding my breath, I watch as he shoves a key into the lock, twisting. Simba pushes through the door first, Kirill following with me in his arms, into a room that is much darker, the shadows much heavier, than in my room.

But I know instantly where I am, because I’m hit with a blast of cedar and flame much stronger than all the others.

This is his room. My husband’s room.

My pitiful heart gives a lurch-like knock in my chest. “What are we doing?”

“Going to bed.”

“I was in bed.”

“I’m sick of sleeping in that bed. I like my bed.”

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