Page 158 of Ruins
I knew what she meant, I was hoping she wouldn't pry.
I'm not proud of the symbol, ofwho I am.
The scythes carved into my back. Crossed. Sharp. Unmistakable. A mark of who I’ve had to become. A mark of Scythe.
I keep my voice steady, careful. “It didn’t hurt. I’m used to pain.” A pause. “It just took a while.”
“I can only imagine it took days to finish,” she says softly.
“Actually, it took weeks,” I correct, stepping out of the closet, tying the drawstring on my sweats.
When I glance at her, her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I see something I haven’t seen before.
A look I can’t place.
Curiosity. Realization. Maybe even suspicion. It tightens something deep in my chest.
“Is it supposed to symbolize death?” she asks, her voice soft but probing.
I hesitate.
The scythes don’t just symbolize death—theyaredeath.They are me.
But I can’t tell her that.
“Sort of,” I say carefully, lowering myself onto the edge of the bed beside her.
She gives a slow nod, but her gaze lingers, searching.Piecing me together.Her fingers brush against my arm, the touch featherlight—a reassurance, or maybe a question she’s not ready to ask.
“Santo?”
“Yes?”
I take in the delicate lines of her face, the warmth of her flushed cheeks, the small crease in her brow.
“I missed you,” she whispers, her eyes dropping—hovering over my lips.
The words slam into my chest, hitting harder than they should.
A jolt of desire burns through my veins, sharp and searing, and before I can stop myself, I lean in, the space between us dwindling to nothing.
“I missed you too, Mia Dea.”
Her breath catches. Her chest rises and falls faster, matching the unsteady rhythm of my own.
But she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t retreat.
Instead, she holds my stare, her pulse thrumming in the delicate line of her throat.
“Santo,” she whispers, her voice carrying the same breathless plea I heard earlier in her room—except now,I’m right here.
I swallow hard as her fingers trail up my arm, slow and deliberate, before coming to rest against my chest.
A single touch.
A fucking brand.
“Yes?” I whisper, matching the quiet intensity in her voice.
