Page 71 of Carved in Ruin

“Your hair is still wet,” Rafael says, his voice low, almost too gentle. I don’t respond. What’s the point? How can I make himunderstand that I didn’t have the energy to even brush it after my shower?

He exhales sharply. I hear him rummaging through something, and then suddenly, he’s standing in front of me, a brush in his hand.

“Sit,” he orders.

I do as I’m told, not out of obedience but because resisting takes more energy than I have. He moves behind me, his hands in my hair, untangling the knots. The brush glides through slowly at first, then with more ease.

“Why are you doing this?” I whisper, my voice cracking like a broken record.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he grabs a towel, wrapping it around my hair and gently squeezing out the dampness. He acts like this is the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

A knock breaks the silence. One of the staff steps in, balancing a tray with soup and toast. Rafael doesn’t even pause. “Set it down,” he says curtly, his hands still working on my hair. She places the tray on the table and slips out as quickly as she came.

“I don’t want to eat,” I grumble.

“Mila, don’t be difficult,” he growls.

I shake my head. I know I’m acting like a child. It feels like I’m watching myself from outside my body, detached and numb. “I’m not hungry,” I say, more forcefully this time.

His grip on the towel tightens. “I’m not going to let you ruin your health” he says, his tone laced with warning. “Eat, Mila.”

“No,” I snap.

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You’re either going to eat willingly, or I’ll pin you down and force this soup down your throat.”

The threat isn’t empty. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the tension radiating off him. He would do it. Of course, he would.

I sigh, defeated, and open my mouth as he breaks off a piece of toast, dips it in the soup, and brings it to my lips. I take it, chewing slowly, the taste bland and heavy in my mouth. He repeats the process, his eyes never leaving mine, watching to make sure I don’t resist.

He’s pitying me.

I hate it.

I hate the way he looks at me like I’m something fragile, something broken he needs to piece back together. I don’t want his pity. Not from him. Not from anyone.

But I don’t stop him.

Because deep down, I know I’m too far gone to do this alone.

I’m too far gone for this world. Too far gone for Rafael, for anyone. This life has been too harsh, too cruel. It has carved me into something unrecognizable—cold, bloodthirsty, condescending. Evil.

He’s sitting across from me, but I can’t look at him, not when he insists on trying to save what’s already been damned. “You know this isn’t something a shower and some soup can fix, Rafael.”

“Kroshka, it might not fix everything, but it will help. If you let it. You can’t keep letting yourself slip like this. You need to care for yourself. It’s hard right now. Trust me, I know. But it’ll pass. Everything passes.”

He sounds so sure, so annoyingly fucking sure that there’s an end to this suffocating darkness.

“No,” I mutter, finally turning to face him. “Not this. This doesn’t pass.” My hand pounds against my chest. “It’s right here. It will stay right here. It’ll taunt me. It’ll haunt me forever.”

Before I can stop him, he grabs my wrist, ripping my hand away from my chest. “Don’t. Don’t hurt yourself like that. Don’t give in to it.”

“There’s no moving on from this,” I say nothing but the truth. “I’m shattered, Rafael. Truly shattered. Beyond repair.”

His body tenses, his jaw tight as he inches closer. He doesn’t speak, not right away. His breath mingles with mine, warm and steady, like he’s daring me to believe him.

“If you can’t fix yourself,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “then I’ll fix you. I’ll lead this battle for you.”

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