Page 189 of Ruins
I take a step back, stunned. “Oh, and you do?” My voice wavers, the words daring, bitter. “Santo, you tolerate me at best.”
Santo steps closer, fists clenched at his sides, but his expression softens, raw and unguarded.
“You think I tolerate you?” His voice is low, rough, weighted with frustration and something far deeper. “You think I can just tolerate the woman who consumes my every thought? My every breath?”
I freeze. His words are thick, vibrating with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
“You don’t understand, Vasilisa.” His jaw flexes, his dark eyes burning into mine. “I don’t needairwhen you’re near because youarethe air. You fill every space, every moment, with light. Without you, there’snothing. No life. No meaning.”
His chest rises and falls sharply, his control slipping.
“From the moment I saw you at Exile, everything changed. I couldn’t breathe—not because you suffocated me, but because I needed youmore than anything. Every time you’re in a room, it’s like nothing else exists butyou.” He swallows hard, his voice a rasp. “When I said ‘I do,’ it wasn’t because Ihadto. It was because, in that moment, Iknew—I couldn’t spend another day without you tied to me. Without you beingmine.”
His voice cracks, exposing the depth of what he’s held back, what he’s fought against.
“I tolerate you?” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “No, Vasilisa. I’ve loved you in ways I never thought possible, and itterrifiesme. If love means losing control—if it meansneedingsomeone so much it burns a hole through my heart—then yes, I love you more than I can handle.”
He steps closer, the air between us charged, suffocating. “But it’s you—” his voice lowers to something dangerous, something aching, “youare the one who tolerates.”
The silence that follows is thick, stretching between us like something tangible. My lungs forget how to work, my pulse hammering so loudly I can barely hear.
He loves me.
The words linger, refusing to settle, refusing to make sense. My body feels weightless, my mind at war with itself. I want to believe him.
Iwantto desperately.
But I can’t move. I can’t speak.
Santo doesn’t push. Instead, he exhales, forcing something down before he murmurs, “I want to show you something. Get dressed—something suitable for outdoors.”
And just like that, he turns to leave.
“Wait,” I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper.
He stops.
I turn my back to him indicating the zipper of my dress. “Can you?”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he steps behind me.
His fingers graze my spine as he pushes my hair aside, knuckles trailing heat down my skin. My breath hitches, goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch. When he finally tugs the zipper down, the brush of his fingers feels different—not just intimate, but deliberate.Meaningful.
My heart stumbles, my throat tight.
He lovesme.
His breath lingers near my neck, the space between us humming with the weight of everything unsaid.
This is what I wanted.
But I hesitate. I can’t afford to believe in fairytales. Not yet.
Still… my heart is already slipping. Hoping.Yearning.
His voice is low, smooth, a quiet vibration against my skin. “Meet me in the kitchen. Bring a jacket.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing there, undone, my mind a tangled mess.
