Page 17 of Carved in Ruin

Finally, I make it to the bottom and sneak toward the side door. My heart stops when I spot a guard outside, far enough away but close enough to notice. He’s facing away, muttering into his radio, and I take a breath, hoping I can slip by. I take my chance, feet bare on the tile as I sneak out. Cold grass hits my feet, but I can’t think about that now.

God, god, god. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. Breaking every rule, sneaking out, disobeying the man I wantnothing but to impress. But somehow, guilt isn’t even on my mind. All I can think about is Rafael.

I keep walking, the air cool against my skin. I reach the road, feeling the rough gravel dig into my toes. A cab slows as I wave it down, and I slip inside, setting the bag down carefully next to me. My head leans back, my shoulders dropping as a tiny giggle escapes.

I’m doing this. For him. I pull my coat tighter, feeling the ache in my feet, the tiny cuts stinging already. I slip my heels back on and close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heartbeat.

Tonight, none of it matters. The ache, the stinging, the guilt—it all fades away because I’m finally going to see Rafael, and it’s different than all the other times, I’m seeing him as afriend.It’s not much, but it’s something.

When I arrive, the restaurant is dark except for dim candlelight flickering across the tables, the place quiet and empty—completely ours for the night.

Rafael’s standing there, watching me with that impenetrable look. I wonder if he feels anything. The moment stretches, awkward in a way that’s almost physical, and when he finally pulls out my chair, the motion is careful, almost too polite, too gentlemanly. It’s like he’s wearing a mask, and tonight, I’m not sure which version of him I’m dealing with.

“Thanks,” I mutter, settling in. The massive gift bag sits heavy at my feet, like all fourteen years pressing down at once.

We start with sushi, both of us picking at the plates, our conversation light. My stomach twists as his gaze keeps flickering to the bag. Finally, I break the silence, setting down my chopsticks. “It’s February tenth, isn’t it?”

He just stares, his jaw flexing a little, eyes darkening as he realizes what that means. I pull out the first gift and slide it across the table, my throat tight. “Happy birthday, Rafael.”

He picks up the little red box like it might bite him. When he opens it, the tiny plastic superhero looks so absurd sitting there between us, like it doesn’t belong in his world at all. He doesn’t say anything, so I reach into the bag and pull out another—a drawing, all crooked lines and smudged crayons from when we were just kids. It’s silly, and I know that, but I place it on the table in front of him anyway.

The next gift is a smooth, painted rock I’d saved for him years ago. “For your sixteenth birthday,” I say, voice low. “You used to love collecting rocks.”

I barely get the fourth gift out before his fingers still, his mouth set in a thin, unreadable line.

“So,” he says after a moment, his voice rough, “you’ve been thinking about me all these years?”

I force myself to hold his gaze. “I tried not to, but it didn’t matter.” The words come out sharper than I mean them, it’s because I’m confessing something I’ve kept locked up far too long.

He doesn’t respond, and an uncomfortable silence stretches between us. I try to fill it, almost pushing for an answer. “Did you ever… you know… think of me?”

He doesn’t answer, just glances down, his eyes darting to his watch like he can’t wait for this to be over. “It’s late, Mila,” he mutters, as if he’s scolding me for wasting his time.

The words sting, and I swallow hard, fighting the heat building behind my eyes. “Right,” I say, standing abruptly, scraping my chair back. “Guess I’ll get out of your way then.”

He barely looks up as I turn, leaving the gifts there like abandoned pieces of a life he never wanted. I storm out, the night biting at me as I wrap my coat tighter. I’ve walked all this way for him, for nothing. My feet scream from the heels, my legs aching as I start down the steps. I stumble, catching myself on the railing.

And suddenly, he’s there, his hands rough as he catches me, steadying me before I can pull away. “Mila, stop,” he growls.

I shove at his chest, anger laced with something I don’t want to name. “Let go of me, Rafael!”

But he tuts, an infuriating sound, and lifts me, carrying me like it’s nothing, like he’s already decided I don’t get a choice in this. “Enough,” he says, voice clipped. “You’re not walking anywhere.”

“Let me go,” I murmur, but he doesn’t listen. He just sets me in his car, and the fight seeps out of me, leaving me hollow and aching.

“Drop me off before the mansion,” I manage, barely meeting his gaze. “I don’t want my father to see us.”

His eyes flash darkly, and he mutters, “Fuck your father.”

I glare at him, feeling that familiar rage coil low in my stomach. “You know what?” I snap. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should stay far,faraway from you.”

His smirk is sharp, almost mocking as he turns to me, eyes glinting in the dark car. “But you can’t do that,Kroshka,can you?” he says, that Russian word dripping off his tongue like a taunt. “You’re tied to me, and you know it. You just can’t let go.”

The word cuts, stinging more than I want to admit.Kroshka.God knows it probably means something cruel in his language. Maybepathetic,maybeweak.I try to breathe, try to act like it doesn’t sting, but I know he sees it. And there’s no way I’ll let him know how much it hurts, how I feel like that needy, irritating shadow that just can’t stop following him.

So I stay silent, clamping down on every feeling that threatens to spill over, gripping my hands until my knuckles turn white. I don’t look at him, don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how humiliated I feel right now.

When we near the mansion, I don’t wait for the car to fully stop before I reach for the door handle. Without looking back, Imove further and further away from him, back to the familiarity of these walls, to the safety of home, back to where at least the pain is expected.

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