Page 20 of Carved in Ruin

The bastard never even wanted to be myfriend.He wanted to own me. To take me, whenever, and however he felt like it. He doesn’t care about me.

At least Itried. I whisper it to myself, but the words taste like shit. They don’t mean anything. I can’t even look at myself anymore.

I curl up into a ball, my body shaking, but it’s not from the cold. It’s from everything inside me breaking.

“At least I tried,” I whisper again, but this time, I don’t even believe myself.

Eleven

Art of a Monster

Rafael

The blade slides through the clay, carving out the curve of her lips. The lips I kissed. The ones I tasted, soft and trembling under mine. I haven’t washed my hand since I touched her. Her scent still lingers on my skin, faint but enough to pull me back into that moment. It is enough to remind me how I fucked everything up.

The strand of her hair I took from the fountain is still in my pocket. I haven’t thrown it away. I don’t know why I even grabbed it. Maybe because I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving any part of her behind. This is fucked up.

But isn’t this what I wanted? To see her break? To make her hurt?

The edge of the knife catches, and I press harder, the line deepening along the side of her cheek. Her cheek, the one I caressed, the one I held as if it was mine to touch. My chesttightens, rage clawing at me from the inside, but I don’t stop. The clay gives under my fingers, molding into her face, every detail burned into my memory. Her nose, her chin, her eyes.

Her blue eyes may as well be the death of me.

I pause, the blade hovering above the hollow I’ve started to carve for them. Those eyes ensnared me. They looked at me like I could be something more, like I wasn’t the goddamn monster I’ve always known I am. And that was her mistake.

Because I am.

I grip the blade tighter, carving out the shape of her pupils. It’s her deadly mistake to have given me her time, her trust, her fucking love.

Love.

The word alone makes me want to shatter the sculpture into a million pieces. My jaw clenches, and I force the thought away, turning my focus back to the clay. Her face stares back at me, alluring, perfect, everything I shouldn’t care about. But I do. Against all reason, I do.

Which is fucking bad.

Because no matter how much she’s worked her way into my veins, no matter how much I want to lose myself in her, I can’t stop. My plans are already in motion. I can’t let her derail this, not now.

I want to hurt her. Hurting her is the only way the demons of my past quiet. It’s the only way I feel like I’m avenging Father, the Bratva, and my fucking pride. Maxim Ivanov didn’t raise a wuss. I want her to feel the hurt in her chest, in her head, in the deepest parts of her that she doesn’t even understand. I want her to trust me, to think for just one second that I might be the man she needs, and then I want to tear it all apart. Let her see how stupid she was for believing in me, for thinking I could be anything other than her worst mistake.

I wanted her to feel it—how close she could come to having everything she thought we could be. I’d let her taste it, let her cling to the idea that maybe, just maybe, I was the man she could trust, the man who could save her. And then I’d rip it away, leaving her breathless and hollow.

I want to see her crumble under me, watch the light drain from her eyes as she realizes I’m not her savior. I’m her end. I want to be the one who builds her up just to knock her back down again.

Then there’s that other part of me. The part I want to kill. The part that aches when I see her hurt. It’s pathetic, really. I should let her drown, let her break, it’s what she fucking deserves.

But even as I tell myself that, my fingers betray me, smoothing out the clay with a tenderness that doesn’t belong here. My hands know what I won’t admit. They know she’s mine in ways I’ll destroy very soon.

I set the blade down, staring at her unfinished face. It doesn’t do her justice, not yet. But it will. Because I’ll finish it. Just like I’ll finish everything I’ve started.

And when it’s done? When my plans reach their conclusion?

She won’t forgive me. She can’t.

And maybe that’s for the best.

The door creaks open behind me, and I don’t bother turning around. Only one person would step into my space uninvited and live to tell the tale.

“If it were anyone else,” I say, the knife still in my hand. “I’d carve their fucking eyes out and feed them to the dogs.”

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