Page 22 of Ruined

I close my eyes, forcing myself to think. What would a man like Noah use? Birthdate? Too obvious. Some kind of code?

"Trying to leave so soon?"

The voice freezes me in place. My stomach drops through the floor as my body goes rigid. The shower isn't running anymore. How did I miss that?

I turn around slowly, my mouth dry.

Noah stands just feet away, water still clinging to his skin. A white towel hangs dangerously low on his hips, and nothing else. My eyes betray me instantly.

Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist. His chest and arms are sculpted muscle, not the bulky kind but the lean and sculpted, dangerous kind that speaks of function over vanity. Tattoos sprawl across his skin—intricate black designs, maybe reptilian, maybe Oriental characters, wrapping around his biceps, covering parts of his chest, disappearing beneath the towel.

Water droplets trace paths down the ridges of his abdomen. My gaze follows one as it slides down past his navel, along the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath white cotton.

Scars mark his body like a roadmap—a jagged line across his ribs, a circular mark near his collarbone, others I can't name. Each one tells a story I'm not sure I want to hear.

His dark hair is slicked back, water making it appear even darker. Rivulets run down his neck, across shoulders that seem impossibly wide this close.

I force my eyes back up to his face, mortified by my own reaction. His expression is unreadable but there's something in his eyes—amusement? Satisfaction?

"I—" My voice fails me. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and something else I refuse to acknowledge.

Noah's mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile. "See something you like, Evelyn?"

"You're flattering yourself," I manage to say, trying to inject venom into my voice despite the heat creeping up my neck. My eyes dart away from his half-naked form, focusing on a spot over his shoulder.

Noah steps closer, water still glistening on his skin. The scent of his soap—cedar and something sharper—fills my senses. He'sclose enough now that I can feel the heat radiating from his shower-warm body.

"I don't need to flatter myself," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. His eyes hold mine, unflinching and dark. "I can tell your pussy is wet and wants to be fucked."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My mouth falls open, shock stealing my breath. The crude assessment—the absolute audacity—sends a jolt of anger through me that finally breaks my paralysis.

"You're an asshole," I spit out, my hands curling into fists at my sides. The words feel inadequate against his vulgarity, but they're all I can manage through my rage and humiliation.

Noah's expression doesn't change. He simply turns his back to me, and in one fluid motion drops his towel to the floor.

My breath catches. I should look away—I want to look away—but I can't.

His back is a canvas of muscle and ink. Tattoos sprawl across his shoulder blades and spine, intricate designs I can't fully make out. A large piece dominates his right shoulder, something with dark wings that disappears under his armpit to his chest.

My eyes travel down the curve of his spine to the dimples at his lower back, then lower still. His ass is as sculpted as the rest of him—firm, perfectly proportioned. Another scar cuts across his left hip, disappearing around the front.

He moves with casual confidence, completely unconcerned with his nudity as he steps towards a dresser. The muscles in his back and shoulders shift beneath his skin with each movement, a lethal grace that reminds me of predator beasts I've seen in documentaries.

I finally manage to tear my eyes away, turning to face the door again. My heart hammers against my ribs, my face burning with shame at my own reaction. I'm angry—furious—but underneath that anger is something else I refuse to acknowledge.

I jerk my head away from him, my face burning with a mix of humiliation and rage. "Go to hell," I spit out.

"Is that the best you've got?" Noah chuckles, the sound low and infuriating as he pulls on a pair of black boxer briefs. "For someone who moves in high society your vocabulary is disappointingly limited."

"And for someone who claims to be protecting me, you're acting like a complete pig," I snap back, keeping my eyes fixed on the wall. "Put some clothes on."

"Why? You seemed to be enjoying the view." He steps into dark jeans, the fabric sliding up his legs with practiced ease.

"I wasn't—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"You were." His voice drops an octave. "Your pupils dilated. Your breathing changed. Your cheeks flushed." He lists these physical observations like he's reading items off a grocery list. "Your body betrays you, Evelyn."

I whirl around, fury overriding embarrassment now that he's at least partially dressed. "You think highly of yourself, don't you? That every woman just falls at your feet?"

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