Page 36 of Carved in Ruin

I try to stand, to act like nothing’s wrong. My knees buckle, but I force myself upright. I won’t let Rafael see me like this, won’t let him think I’m weak. But he doesn’t give me the chance. He’s on me in an instant, his arms locking around me before I can take another shaky step.

“Let me go,” I snap. I claw at his chest, but it’s like fighting a wall.

He carries me out of the bathroom like I weigh nothing, his grip firm but careful, as though I might break.

“Rafael,” I hiss, struggling harder. “Put me down!”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t even look at me. He moves through the halls with a calm that makes me want to scream, as if he didn’t witness the most embarrassing moment of my life.

We end up in another bathroom and he sets me down on the counter. His hands are already moving, turning on the faucet, grabbing a glass.

“Open your mouth,” he orders.

“No,” I whisper, turning my head away.

He grips my chin, not hard but firm enough to remind me who’s in control, and tilts my face toward him. His thumb brushes my jaw as he presses the glass to my lips.

“Drink,” he says, softer now.

I have no fight left. The water floods my mouth, washing away the lingering taste of soap and bile. I gag but swallow.

When he pulls the glass away, his eyes narrow, scanning me like he’s trying to memorize every detail. His gaze stops at my collarbone, and his jaw tightens.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, his voice suddenly ice.

I look down, noticing for the first time the scratch cutting across my skin, just below the neckline of my top.

“It’s nothing,” I murmur, trying to brush it off.

But he’s already moving. He grabs a handful of tissues, wets them under the faucet, and steps closer.

“Rafael, stop—” I start, but the words die in my throat as he pulls the neckline of my top down just enough to expose the wound.

He dabs at the blood, ignoring the swell of my chest. The cool water stings, but it’s nothing compared to the shame curling in my stomach.

I stare straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes.

When he’s done, he steps back, tossing the tissues into the sink. His hands linger at his sides for a moment before he speaks.

“I hope you know,” he says, his voice like a dark promise, “this is the last time he will hurt you.”

I finally look at him, my breath catching at the intensity in his eyes.

“Because if he does,” he continues, his tone lethal, “I will gift you both his hands,Kroshka.”

Eighteen

When Kingdoms Collapse

Mila

You know how people say it gets better? That time dulls the edges? Well, that’s not my reality. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the ceiling, while downstairs, my father tears the mansion apart.

His hand—the one Rafael shot—is beyond repair. The nerves were severed clean through. The doctors say amputation might be necessary, but his good hand still works just fine to smash vases and throw furniture against the walls.

Disaster struck this morning. The Bulgarians, the ones supplying his weapon stockpiles, decided to cut ties. I hear part of his raging phone call through the walls.

“You listen to me! I’ve kept this arrangement clean for years. You want to sever it over a better offer? Fine. Tell me who the fuck paid you off.”

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