Page 67 of Carved in Ruin

His body jerks violently, the chair toppling backward. The floor is stained with his blood, pooling beneath him as pieces of his skull scatter across the room. The sight is so visceral, so brutal, that I can’t breathe. I can’t look away. I don’t want to look away.

Arkadi’s hands are still on him, holding him down as his body twitches. Ivan steps back, staring at the mess like he’s trying to process what just happened. But I don’t care. I don’t care about the blood, the gore, the sickening spray that covers the walls. I just care that he’s gone. Finally.

“I hate you,” I whisper, the words barely escaping my lips.

Twenty Nine

Ashes in Her Wake

Rafael

She walks into the mansion like a ghost. Her body is coated in dirt and blood.

“What the fuck happened?” I growl.

She sinks onto the couch. Her gaze is distant, locked on something that isn’t here. I drop to my knees in front of her, hands reaching for her face. My palms cradle her cheeks, and her skin feels cold.

“Did that fucker hurt you?” I snarl, the words punching out of me, each syllable edged with violence. My hands shake against her skin. “I swear to God, Mila, if he laid a hand on you—”

She cuts me off, her voice soft, hollow. “He’s dead.”

The world stills. “What?” I rasp, leaning closer, needing to hear it again, to understand.

“He’s dead,” she repeats. “I killed him.”

For a second, I don’t know what to feel. Relief? Satisfaction? Hell, maybe pride. That bastard deserved the worst of deaths. But as I stare at her, the weight of what she’s saying slams into me. This isn’t her. This isn’t the Mila I know.

“I killed him,” she whispers again, and then it happens.

She starts laughing.

It’s not real laughter. It’s broken, jagged, and it cuts through me like glass. The sound fills the room and I don’t know what to do.

“Mila,” I murmur, but she doesn’t stop. She laughs and laughs until it twists into a scream that tears its way out of her, raw and violent, before she collapses into me, sobbing.

Her body shakes against mine, her tears soaking through my shirt as I hold her. Then, she stops. Her body goes still. No more tears, no more sobs. Just silence.

I pull back and brush her hair away from her face. “Talk to me, Kroshka,” I plead. “Please, look at me. Say something.”

She doesn’t.

I need answers. Ivan, Arkadi—they’ll tell me what the hell happened. But later. Right now, she’s here, and she’s… not here.

“How about you wash up?” I ask.

Nothing. She gives no reaction. She does not even offer me a flicker of acknowledgment.

Fuck.

I scoop her into my arms without waiting for a response. She doesn’t resist; she’s limp against me, her head lolling onto my shoulder like she’s made of nothing but bone and sorrow.

At the door, I set her on her feet. “Mila,” I murmur, brushing her shoulder.

She stands there, unblinking, unmoving. A statue.

I lead her inside, my hand on her shoulder, steering her like she’s forgotten how to exist. Slowly, I peel her clothes off, dirt and blood staining my fingers.

The water runs, steam filling the space as I test the temperature. “Come here.”

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