Page 72 of Carved in Ruin

I want to laugh at the absurdity of it, at the futility. But I can’t find it in myself to push him away, not when he looks at me like I’m something worth saving.

“Why?” I want to ask, but I already know he doesn’t have an answer. None that would satisfy the hollow ache inside me. So I don’t ask.

Instead, I grip his shirt with trembling hands, pulling him closer, “Can you crawl inside me, Rafael? Can you find the places where I’m shattered? Where I’m ruined? The parts of me so dark no light can reach them… and fix me there? Mend me where the pieces don’t fit anymore?”

He leans his forehead against mine. “I will, Mila,” he promises.

I close my eyes. I hate that I want to believe him.

Our breaths fall into sync, his chest rising and falling in time with mine. The air between us feels fragile, like the slightest shift might shatter it. But I can’t help myself—I never can with him. I make the first move, like I always do.

I press my lips to his, tentative at first. He freezes, stiff and unyielding, and for a moment, I think he’s going to pull away. But then his mouth softens, and he kisses me back.

It’s not gentle. There’s no softness, no tenderness. I kiss him like I’m drowning and he’s the last breath I’ll ever take. Like thisis the last time I’ll ever get to feel him, the last time he’ll allow himself to be near me.

His hands move down my body with a kind of desperation, cupping my breasts, skimming over my stomach, and then gripping my thigh so tightly it aches. His fingers leave their mark, red and angry against my pale skin, but I welcome the sting. It’s something real. Something that reminds me I’m still here, still capable of feeling something other than emptiness.

His lips trail down my neck, hot and insistent, leaving a path of heat that battles the cold consuming me. I gasp as he pulls the shirt from my body—the shirt I’ve been hiding in, living in. His knuckles graze over my skin, and every nerve ending ignites under his touch.

Yes. Yes. This is what I need. To feel alive. To feel like I’m still human, not just a ghost haunting the remnants of my own life.

I reach for his shirt, my fingers trembling as they brush against the fabric, desperate to feel his skin beneath my hands. But he doesn’t let me. His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrists, and he pins them behind my back with one hand.

“No touching my chest.” He commands.

I don’t fight him. I don’t argue.

I know why.

I know what he sees when he looks at me.

I’m disgusting. Ruined. I’ve caused him pain, more than I can even fathom. Of course, he wouldn’t want me to touch him. Of course, he would want to keep this shallow with the murderer.

Because that’s all I deserve.

And yet, I don’t care. I don’t care if this is punishment or pity or something in between. All I want is this—his touch, his heat, the illusion that for a moment, I’m worth something more than the wreckage I’ve become.

His lips scorch a path down my skin, his teeth sinking in just enough to make me gasp. He bites, marking me, his tonguetracing over the bruises as if to soothe them. He doesn’t ease up. He doesn’t give me the chance to forget, even for a second, that I am his.

A whimper escapes me, and his answering growl sends a shiver down my spine. His fingers find their way to my pussy, teasing, testing, even though he doesn’t need to. I’m already lost to him. My body answers him without hesitation, traitorous in its eagerness, ready for him in a way that feels humiliating and undeniable all at once.

When he moves to rid himself of his pants, my breath catches. He’s huge, everywhere. He steals the air from the room as he settles above me. He enters me, and for a brief, fleeting moment, there’s an ache—a sharp, almost unbearable stretch that makes my teeth clench. The bane of my existence has taken my virginity.

“You’ll adjust,Kroshka,” he rasps. His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as if daring me to defy him. “You’ll adjust to the only man your body will ever know. Every inch of you will belong to me, your body will bend, will break, and then rebuild around me. No one else can touch you the way I do. No one will ever even dare to.”

I melt into him.

“You’re mine,” he growls, each thrust driving the words deeper into my soul. “All of you. Every inch, every thought, every breath—you’re mine.”

I nod, not because I agree, but because there’s nothing else I can do. He’s not wrong though. He owns me in ways I don’t have the strength to resist.

But as his shirt drags against my skin with every movement, something inside me aches for more. I want his skin, his heat, his scars pressed against mine. I want to feel the raw, unfiltered truth of him, not the barrier he’s placed between us.

I don’t say it. I don’t beg for what I can’t have. I just grip him tighter, letting the roughness of his claim consume me, swallowing the tears that rise to the surface as I give myself to him..

His thumb finds its way between us, pressing against the place that makes me lose all sense of reason. The slow, deliberate circles he traces over my clit are maddening, pushing me closer and closer to an edge I can’t resist. My vision blurs, pleasure surging hot and fierce through my veins, like a fever I can’t sweat out.

His thrusts grow harder, rougher, each one tearing another breathless sound from my lips.

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