Page 25 of Tears of Ruin

This was not survival mode.

This was not pain.

This was not something I had ever been taught how to handle.

The moment he pinned me with those fire-lit eyes, something inside me buckled. He wasn’t just looking at me. He was seeing me. As if he could peel back every layer of armor I’d ever built and lay me bare without ever touching me. And worse? I wanted him to.

I wanted to know what it would feel like to be stripped down, undone, without fear being the thing keeping me tethered.

He was always careful with me. Like he knew I’d bolt if he so much as breathed wrong.

And I might have.

I should have.

But I didn’t.

Because this wasn’t fear in the way I’d always known it. This wasn’t survival flashing bright behind my ribs, screaming for me to run, to fight, to get small, to disappear.

This was something else.

Something infinitely more dangerous.

Because Richard didn’t just see me, he unraveled me. He stood there, body carved from fire and shadow, and knew me in a way no one ever had before.

I felt it. In the quiet tension of the room. In the way his chest rose and fell, steady and sure, while mine stayed locked, my breath shallow and uneven.

I had spent my life prepared, every exit mapped, every escape route carved into the back of my mind like an instinct.

But there was no way out of this.

No plan.

No escape.

Just him. And me. And the knowing weight of his gaze as it held me in place, pressing against something deep inside me I hadn’t realized was hollow until now.

I swallowed hard. “Richard—”

He moved closer. Just a step, but I felt it like gravity shifting. His fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for me but knew better. Knew I might retreat before he had the chance.

But I didn’t move. Not away, at least. I stayed. Like a desperate man, I stayed.

His gaze flickered, something breaking open in his expression. “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Noam.” His voice was soft, rough at the edges, like he was holding something back.

I wasn’t afraid of him. I was afraid of what he meant.

Everything about him—his presence, his patience, the way he never pushed but never let me go either—made me feel like I was standing at a ledge, staring into something I couldn’t name.

I could jump, or I could walk away. But for once, I didn’t know which one I wanted more.

My fingers curled inward. I felt wired, strung too tight, like one wrong move would shatter me completely.

Richard felt it. I knew he did.

Because when he moved again, it was careful, slow, giving me time to pull away. But I didn’t.

My hand trembled as I reached out. I didn’t know why I did it—instinct, maybe, or sheer stupidity.

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