Page 146 of Ruins
My heart stutters as his hands slide into his pockets, as he watches me, his gazelingering,drinking me in as if he’s afraid he’ll forget the details of my face before he walks out that door.
It’s a look that wrecks me.
Not just because of the intensity behind it, but because it makes my insecurities coil inside me, pressing into my ribs like an iron vice.What does he see when he looks at me like that?
In my modest jeans and sweater, I feel plain,unremarkable, so small beneath his scrutiny. And yet, he doesn’t look away. His gaze softens, deepens, burns with something I can’t name. Something I ache to understand.
Then, he moves.
A single finger glides under my chin, tilting my face upward in a touch so gentle it unravels me. His lips brush mine—soft, fleeting,not enough.
And before he can pull away, I stop him.
I rise onto my toes, my hands flying to his face, my fingers curling onto his jaw as I pull him down,kissing him like I can breathe life back into him.
He exhales sharply against my mouth, and for a second—just asecond—hemelts.
The tension in his body falters, his hands ghosting over my waist as if he wants to hold me there, as if he wants to stay. But then the moment slips away, and when I break the kiss, we’re still close, our foreheads nearly touching, my breath still tangled with his.
“Come home safe to me,” I whisper, my voice breaking just slightly.
His hands twitch at his sides, and something unreadable flickers in his dark eyes. His brow creases—not in frustration, not in hesitation—but in something deep andunspoken. Something he can’t say.
He won’t promise me.
Instead, his voice drops, rough and low. “I willendeavorto.”
And then he straightens.
The guards return, stepping into the room like shadows, and suddenly, he’s gone. Not physically—not yet—but the warmth of his presence is already fading. The air between us feels heavy with things left unsaid, with everything weshouldhave spoken aloud but didn’t.
And then he leaves.
I don’t know when he’ll be home, only that I will be waiting up.
I loathe the shadows that follow me everywhere I go.
They are constant, lingering just at the edge of my freedom, a reminder that I am watched, that I am guarded—as if I am something delicate, something that can be taken.
I refuse to be either.
Instead of dwelling on it, I focus on my painting. Seated in the library, I let my brush move across the canvas, bringing to life the newest piece taking shape beneath my fingertips—a depiction of Santo and me, in the garden beneath the magnolia trees. A moment that is ours, captured forever in paint.
Luca doesn’t join me today. He sits at a nearby table with Romeo, their conversation quiet, their presence steady. Enzo and Sergei remain outside the library door, silent sentinels. But Alexei—he is the only one who seems to pay me any mind.
He stands behind me, broad-shouldered and imposing, his dark hair cropped short, his neatly trimmed beard making him look even more severe. His entire presence is combat-ready—dressed for war, boots heavy against the floor, his piercing blue eyes constantly watching.
More often than not, his gaze lands on Luca, sharp with an unspoken fury—one that Luca returns, unbothered, unwavering.
Alexei observes my work, tilting his head slightly before commenting in Russian, a compliment slipping from his lips. “You are talented.”
I nod, accepting the praise. “Spasibo.”
“You married into this family solely for the alliance?” Alexei asks in Russian, his voice low, his gaze flicking toward Luca and Romeo, ensuring they don’t understand.
I keep my expression neutral. Calculated. “Yes,” I answer evenly. “But my husband is a good man, so the marriage is good.” My tone is polite, controlled—distant, but firm.
Alexei chuckles.
