Page 135 of 10 Days to Ruin

“Down to the last barrel of ink.”

I pick up an issue still warm from the presses. Ariel flinches when I shred the front page with my bare hands. “The Bratva owns this place. Tomorrow’s headline—” I scatter the strips of paper at her feet. “—will discuss your charity work. Your Pulitzer-worthy bylines. It’s ours to do with as we please.”

Her throat bobs. She looks down at the ripped paper, then back up at me. Her voice is choked, half with tears, half with laughter. “Careful, Sasha. I’m almost starting to think you like me.”

I take her hand. It’s still cold and dead in mine, but it’s warming, little by little. Through the open doors, I can see the plant workers fleeing to their cars as Feliks stalks around and tells them to run for their lives, cackling like a hyena.

I lead Ariel to the main press, its metallic jaws frozen mid-print cycle. “This machine spread today’s filth. This is how we repay those favors.”

Ariel eyes a nearby stack of papers. “Sasha?—”

I rip the crowbar free of the first press I ruined and bring it down on the control panel. Sparks erupt and circuitry sizzles. “Let’s see them call you a whore now.”

She flinches at the crash. “Stop it! You’re being insane!”

“Insane?” I kick a nearby paper spindle, sending rolls bouncing across the floor. “This is justice. You wanted to know the man you’re marrying? Here he is!” I grab a Patriot employee ID from a desk and snap it between my fingers. “A beast who protects what’s his!”

I lift her onto the dormant printing press, spreading her across the still-warm metal rollers. Her breath hitches as I yank down her jeans, fingers sliding through her dampness.

“Sasha…” Her nails dig into my shoulders. Everywhere we touch feels like a collision, like split atoms sparking nuclear winter.

There’s nothing tender about our coupling. It’s teeth and claws and ink-stained hands. The machinery groans beneath us, old gears protesting as we fuck like the world’s ending—and maybe it is. Maybe this scorched-earth passion is all we’ll ever have.

What if it is?

What if that’s enough?

She comes with a ragged cry, back arching off the cold steel. I do the same a moment later. My roar echoes through the hollow carcass of the factory. Afterward, I let my forehead come to rest against hers, the acrid smell of solvents clinging to our skin.

Ariel brushes fingers through my hair. “You realize this makes us the trashiest cliché ever, right? Having hate sex on the ashes of our enemies?”

I lift my head, studying her smudged eyeliner and kiss-bruised mouth. “This wasn’t hate, Ariel. Not even close.”

44

ARIEL

The newsroom usually calms me. It’s ASMR for journalism nerds: keyboard clatter, printer groans, the acidic tang of burnt coffee clinging to the back of my throat.

Today, though, it’s all just making me think of sex.

Sasha driving into me as a printing press shudders beneath us.

Ink on my hands, smeared on his chest, as we fuck on top of lies.

No matter how many times I try to redirect to get actual work done, I keep ending up back in the same horny-ass headspace. Needless to say, not productive.

It doesn’t help that I’m hiding. Instead of my normal cubicle, I’m balancing my laptop on my knees as I hide in the very back of a little-used conference room. I know my colleagues read thePatriot Press’s story, or at least heard enough about it to imagine the details. News junkies gonna news junkie, and what’s better than hot, scandalous gossip about your coworkers?

But as long as I don’t hear their whispers, I can pretend they aren’t real. And as long as they aren’t real, I can let Sasha’s promise keep me sane.

I’ll always protect what’s mine.

He said it. He meant it. I can trust in that.

I’m elbow-deep in fact-checking Lora’s piece on subway rats when a shadow falls across my desk. “Gina, I already told you, I’ll?—”

“Koukla.”

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