Page 12 of Carved in Ruin

His gaze is all over me, sweeping down from my damp hair to my bare shoulders, over the slick fabric clinging to every curve. I’ve never felt this exposed in front of any man before. The way he’s looking at me now feels intense, like he’s seeing past the swimsuit, past everything, like he owns the air between us.

“Want one?” He holds out another cigarette between his fingers, and I hesitate. His eyes narrow slightly, a hint of amusement there, daring me to take it.

I reach out, fingers brushing his as I grab it. I hold his gaze as he flicks open his lighter, flame jumping to life between us. He leans closer, his scent all smoke and something warm, making my breath hitch as I inhale the first drag. It burns my lungs, but I can’t look away, his eyes never breaking from mine as I cough.

“Not a fan?”

“Never tried,” I admit. He smiles, an almost-smile, his eyes dipping briefly to my lips as he takes another drag from his own cigarette.

“First and last time you try this, yeah?” he orders, like it’s a rule I’d better remember. “Unless you’re with me.”

I nod, and he reaches for the wine bottle, plucks it from my hand, twisting it open. Lifting it to his mouth, he takes a long drink, tipping his head back, throat moving as he swallows. He pulls the bottle away, offering it to me, and the look in his eyes tells me exactly what he’s thinking. Nasty things. Dirty things that shouldn’t be shared between childhood friends.

I bring the bottle to my lips, eyes still locked on his, and take a slow sip. The wine is rich and bold, warming me from the inside out. I feel a strange thrill as I drink from where his mouth just was. It’s almost like his lips are on mine—an indirect kiss. The thought makes my cheeks flush, and I pull the bottle away, only for a little wine to spill, trailing down from my lips to my neck and further.

Rafael’s gaze follows that red drop, his expression darkening as he watches it drop into the valley of my chest. He doesn’t move, doesn’t reach out to catch it, but the way he looks at me…

I hear footsteps behind us, and I almost have a panic attack. My father’s voice cuts through our moment. “What’s going on here?”

I turn quickly, stubbing and then hiding the cigarette behind my back. “Rafael accidently stumbled into the kitchen while looking for a bathroom,” I blurt despite my effort to appear natural. “And then he helped me with the wine, that’s all.”

His eyes flick between me and Rafael. “That’s all?” His voice is dangerously calm, he’s livid.

Rafael’s face is unreadable, his whole focus is on me, he doesn’t acknowledge Father at all.

I insist that’s all that we have done, and take a step back, hoping to slip away to the pool, but my father moves faster. His hand grips my arm, hard enough that it aches, and he leans in close, his voice a low hiss. “You better not have done anything with him,” he warns low, only for my ears.

My cheeks burn with humiliation and anger, but I nod, keeping my face as blank as I can manage. He lets go, and I quickly pull my arm away, walking back toward the pool without a word, feeling his warning echo in my mind with every step.

Seven

The Doll and the Monster

Rafael

Ican’t get the image out of my mind. His fingers, pressing into her arm, that grip so tight I can almost feel the marks it must have left on her skin. It’s burned there, that sight, looping back on itself in my head until it’s all I see. It’s like she is some doll he can toss around however he pleases.

My hand curls into a fist, something dangerous pulsing under my skin. It’s the kind of feeling that stays, slow-burning, consuming, demanding I do something about it. She’d looked so small beside him, her head down.

I shouldn’t be affected by her like this. By now, I should’ve been able to look right through her. But old habits die hard, don’t they? Once, when I was much younger, she was everything—my whole damn world. I’d have fought anyone, done anything for her back then. But then shit happened, and people show you what they’re really made of.

Her father, that worthless bastard, is at the top of that list. I’ll never forget the way he just…stood there, when it all went to hell that day. Bullets everywhere, hell breaking loose, and he didn’t even think to reach for her. Didn’t so much as lift a damn finger to help his own daughter.

That day, though, I didn’t see her as the woman she’s become. No, I saw her as that little girl, the one who used to follow me around, who trusted me. All I could think of was that she needed someone who’d stand in front of her when no one else would.

The office door creaks open without a knock—brave or stupid, I’ll decide in a second. Anatoly steps in, looking tense. “Pakhan,” he says, “we have an issue. Mikhail screwed up. Crossed into Albanian territory, started some shit he couldn’t finish.”

Mikhail. That little punk. I stand up from the desk. I don’t bother with many words—no one in my line of work respects words. Actions are what make the impact. “Where is he?”

“He’s hiding out at his place,” Anatoly says. “I told him to stay put until you got there.”

“Let’s go,” I say, already walking past him. The rules are simple—loyalty and intelligence. Mikhail failed at only one of those rules, and that’s the sole reason he won’t die.

Minutes later, we’re at his apartment. I don’t knock. I kick the door open with a solid crack, and it gives way. Mikhail’s inside, looking like a rat trapped in a cage, half-drunk with a bottle in his hand, wide-eyed as he stumbles back, falling over his couch.

“Pakhan, I was going to—”

“Shut up,” I snap, voice cold. I stride across the room, and he’s scrambling, knowing better than to make excuses. I grab him by the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. I send a fist straight into his face. He staggers, blood already dripping fromhis nose, but I don’t stop. Another blow lands on his ribs, then his jaw, until he’s doubled over.

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