Page 7 of Carved in Ruin

I spritz perfume all over, but my hands tremble as I do it. My nerves are a tight knot in my stomach, twisting and turning. Layla must sense it because she bumps me with her shoulder, her playful smile breaking through my anxiety.

“Don’t be nervous; it’s going to be okay,” she reassures me.

I nod, but inside, I’m battling a whirlwind of emotions. I don’t just want it to be okay; I want it to be perfect—magical, even. The anticipation is almost suffocating, and I can’t shake the feeling that everything is riding on this night.

Four

A Feast for Hunger

Rafael

Envy is suffocating. I can taste it in the air, thick and bitter, like ash on the tongue. It clings to Milos Jovanovich, pouring off him in waves. He’s staring at me like I’m something he can’t quite figure out, eyes dragging from my brown leather shoes to the slick of gel in my hair. Pathetic. The man who once loomed large when I was younger, now looks like a crushed bug.

I lean back, stretching out in the chair, legs wide. I don’t say a word, don’t need to. I’m the man in this room, not him. Sure, this is his mansion, and he’s got at least a hundred men scattered around. But we both know who holds the power here. It’s not him. It’s never been him. I catch the flicker in his eyes—resentment, fear, and god knows what else.

It’s almost too easy.

Milos clears his throat, forcing a smile that barely stretches across his face. “I owe you, Rafael. You saved my daughter’s life.” The words come out stiff, like they’re too heavy for him to swallow. His hand twitches near his glass, the fingers tightening. He doesn’t like saying it.

I nod, keeping my eyes locked on his. “You do,” I say casually, but there’s an edge to my voice that I know he catches. I could let him off easy, make it sound like I didn’t do anything, but where’s the fun in that? His discomfort is almost amusing.

He shifts in his chair, gripping the armrest a little too hard. “Yeah,” he agrees, “I… I am glad this got us closer… Our deals will definitely be fruitful.”

I nod, taking a slow sip of my drink, not breaking eye contact.

“She sure is… special.” I say absently, but I let the words hang there, just long enough to make him second-guess what I mean. I want to rile him up, and have him see how he can’t do shit about it. His jaw tightens. He’s not stupid. The way I said it, the way I looked at him—he’s wondering now. Wondering what I mean by ‘special.’

There’s a flicker of something dark in his eyes, jealousy, maybe. It’s faint, but it’s there. He’s always been touchy when she gets brought up, and I don’t like it. My time with her is over, it was child play, it didn’t mean anything, but I hate that he thinks he has some type of ownership over her. I lean forward a little, just enough to keep him off balance, watching him like he’s prey and I’m not in the mood to chase.

The conversation between Milos and I fizzles out as the sound of heels clicking on stairs draws both our attention. I turn my head slowly, my eyes locking on her the moment she steps into view. Mila. She’s… stunning.

That dress—black, slinky, hugging her curves in all the right places. It shows just enough skin to keep you wanting more. The gold chains across her chest practically beg for attention,framing her breasts in a way that makes me wonder if they’d fit perfectly in my hands.

She’s not the girl I used to chase around the gardens anymore. She’s a woman I’m going to dismantle, piece by piece. I’ll tear her apart and put her back together again.

“Rafael,” she says, her voice soft but clear.

“Mila.” I stand, moving towards her with deliberate ease, like I’ve got all the time in the world. My hand finds her forearm, and I press a kiss just below her wrist, slow and lingering. Not romantic, not sweet, but… something else. I see the way her breath catches, the way her lips part ever so slightly.

Her sister shifts next to her, and I glance her way briefly. “Layla,” I say, nodding once before turning back to Mila. Layla smiles awkwardly, a quick, “Hi,” slipping from her lips.

We sit around the table, and the help brings out tray after tray of food. The smell is rich and it fills the room. But no matter how much they bring, I’m hungry for something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on, something gnawing at the back of my mind.

“I had the chef preparestroganofffor you. I remember it was your favorite when you were younger.” Milos says, trying to play nice.

“Spasibo,” I thank him in Russian.

I let my gaze shift to Mila as she slices into her steak. The way she lifts the fork to her lips, the way her mouth closes around the meat…it stirs something in me. I can’t help but notice how her tongue grazes her lips after, savoring the flavor, how her throat moves when she swallows.

The way she eats, it’s sensual, whether she realizes it or not. Every time she lifts the fork, my mind drifts somewhere else. I wonder what else she’s learned to savor, what else she could take in like that.

Dark spots dance at the edges of my vision. She’s not mine. She never was, and I don’t want her to be. But the idea of someone else tasting what I see in front of me, savoring her the way I imagine—it aggravates me. A burn stirs in my gut, tight and coiled, and I fight to push it away. She’s not mine to claim.

Milos pushes his chair back slightly, urging me, “Eat, Rafael. You’re our guest.”

I glance at him, nodding once before picking up my fork. I chew, but the food feels tasteless. My hunger is growing, but not for anything on this table.

Milos keeps talking, but his voice fades into the background. The only thing I’m focused on is her.

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