Page 14 of Carved in Ruin

I look from her back to Mila. Her eyes are practically glowing as she nods, her excitement spilling over. Her smile is so wide, I almost forget who she is, and who I am. The next thing I know, I’m saying yes.

“Perfect,” Mila says, stepping closer with a paintbrush in hand, looking me over. “What are you doing?” I ask, eyeing her warily.

She shakes her head, grinning. “You can’t go looking this glum. Now—Spiderman, or Batman?”

I blink, stunned. Spiderman or Batman? I’m a six-foot-five killer, the one people cross the street to avoid. And here she is, asking me this question.

“Come on,” she insists, her voice teasing, “your call.”

I sigh, biting down a laugh. “You choose.”

“Spiderman it is.”

I crouch down so she can reach me. She leans in, fingers on my jaw, focused on painting that damn glittery spider on my cheek. Her face is so close I can feel her breath against mine.

She’s got this look of intense focus, eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted as she strokes each line of the damn thing. Soft. Delicate. Weak. Everything I can’t stand. Everything I shouldn’t crave. She’s pulling me into something I have no business wanting.

I don’t know why I let her get this close, why I’m even allowing her to do this. I’m a man who commands streets and shuts down rooms with a single look—what the hell am I doing, kneeling like this for her? She pauses, maybe to examine her handiwork, and for a split second, it feels like something dangerous. Too close, too familiar.

Then we’re inside the cancer center, and the whole scene is chaos. Layla’s a hurricane, grabbing kids left and right, swinging them around like they weigh nothing. She jumps up on tables, yells out dance moves, and blasts the music. She’s got the kids shrieking, laughing, like she’s transformed the place into some kind of nightclub for toddlers. It’s madness. There are hundreds of little hands reaching out, tugging at her, grabbing her attention like she’s some kind of goddamn star.

Mila, though—Mila sits off to the side. She’s got that calm energy, the kind that pulls people in without trying. Kids flock to her, hands outstretched, waiting for her to paint something on their skin. I watch her as she paints each one with the same concentration she used on me. My gaze lingers, longer than I want it to. It’s Mila I can’t look away from. The calm, the softness. It does something to me, something I don’t like.

I settle next to her, close enough that her soft scent pulls at me. Watching her fingers work across the kids’ small hands, I can’t help but mutter, “You’re good at this.”

A small smile pulls at her lips. We sit in silence, and I cut through it with a question I don’t even mean to ask. “Did Milos put you up to this? You know, for appearance and all.”

Her head snaps toward me so fast I almost reach out, thinking she might’ve hurt her neck. The smile vanishes, replaced with something cold and wounded. “Why? You think we’re here just to look good?”

I knew the moment I said it that I’d touched a nerve, but it’s too late now, so I don’t even try to backtrack. The words spill out before I can hold them back. “I don’t think you do a lot of things just because you want to, Mila.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, and her hand clenches, the brush stilling in her grip. “So, you think I’m just a puppet?”

My jaw tightens, and the silence stretches. I should answer, but I don’t. Can’t.

She scoffs, shaking her head. “For your information, we did this all ourselves. The planning, the costumes, the paint—every detail. My father had nothing to do with it. Sure, he’s happy it looks good, but we did it because we wanted to. And you… you just assume I’m here on his strings.”

Mila’s eyes drop to the brushes in her hand, twisting them back and forth before finally looking up at me, her expression unreadable.

“I’ll forgive you for that hurtful assumption… on one condition.”

I scoff. “I don’t need your forgiveness.”

Her hand cuts through my words, held out between us. “We become friends again,” she says, undeterred by my harshness.

I look at her small hand, waiting there as if my forgiveness were something she could bargain with. I don’t need herforgiveness. It’s not even on my radar. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t the truth, and I don’t care what she thinks of it.

Yet, before I can stop myself, my hand reaches out, and shakes hers.

Eight

Always Together

Mila was six years old, and Rafael was ten. The summer heat was relentless, but that didn’t stop them from running around the fountain. His legs were much longer than hers, but he always made sure to give her the illusion of a chase. He’d slow down just enough to let her get a step ahead, just enough for her to feel like she was faster than him.

She giggled, her long hair flying in every direction. “You’re slow!” she teased, sticking her tongue out at him.

“You think so?” he grinned, then lengthened his stride, catching up to her in an instant, but just as quickly, he slowed again, letting her lead for a few more steps.

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