Page 56 of Carved in Ruin

“I don’t want you near him,” he snaps.

“And I don’t care what you want.” I step closer to him, not backing down. “You have to trust me, Rafael. Trust that I won’t do anything with him.”

“I don’t trust him,”

“Then trust me,” I shoot back. “This is a hill I’m willing to die on. Do not touch him. Do not harm him. Because if you do, I will show you how it truly feels like not to trust your spouse.”

What Rafael doesn’t know is that the second I took his last name, I made a vow: no man would ever clip my wings again. Yes, it was forced upon me, but it’s still a different name than the one that belonged to the girl who submitted to her father without question, as though she had no sense of self. That girl is gone. I refuse to become her ever again.

I climb the stairs with him trailing behind me. The tension between us is thick, crackling with unspoken words I’m too tired to deal with tonight. When I push open the bedroom door, I stop dead in my tracks.

The couch, the one I’d been sleeping on, is gone.

I whirl around to face him. “Where the hell is the couch?”

“I had it thrown out.”

“What?”

“You’re my wife,Kroshka.”

“You keep saying that like it’s supposed to mean something.”

He ignores me. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but spouses are meant to sleep next to each other. In the same bed.”

“Ridiculous,” I mutter.

Before I can move or argue, his hands are on me, pushing my back on the bed. His lips crash against mine, and it’s like molten lava—hot, overwhelming, and consuming. His hands cup my breasts, squeezing them. He slides his hand downwards, caressing my inner thighs over the material of my sweatpants.

For a moment, I’m caught in the pull of it, drowning in the sensation. But then, like a cold splash of water, the memories hit. How he touched me like I was his possession, only to turn around and propose to my sister. How small and used I’d felt. The shame. The anger.

I wrench my head away from the kiss, breaking the connection. “I don’t want this,” I whisper.

He freezes, his breath hot against my neck, then pulls back. A storm brews in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he slams his hand against the doorframe on the way out of the room.

Twenty Six

Half a Million Lies

Mila

Iam studying Russian in secret, hiding textbooks and scribbled notes in my closet like some guilty teenager concealing love letters. It’s not for me. It’s for him. He’s the kind of man who swallows your soul and spits out the parts he doesn’t need. Ruthless. Beautiful. Untouchable.

But I can’t help myself. His world is as much a mystery as the language he grew up speaking. So here I am, sitting at the kitchen table, mumbling through clumsy Cyrillic phrases when his shadow crosses the doorway.

“Mila,” his voice carries that low, amused rumble that somehow manages to thrill and infuriate me at the same time. “What are you doing?”

I freeze, my pencil hovering above the notebook. Things are still a bit awkward between us ever since I turned his advancesdown. “Nothing,” I lie, which is absurd given the textbook sprawled open in front of me.

He steps closer.

“Povtorit’,” he says, his accent sharp.

“I didn’t ask for help,” I shoot back, my cheeks heating under his scrutiny.

“You didn’t have to,” he counters, pulling out the chair across from me. He sits down, languid yet commanding, rolling up his sleeves just enough to expose the veins and tattoos snaking along his forearms.

“Say it,” he orders, pointing to the word on the page.

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