Page 261 of Ruins
Santo slides in next to me, then, without hesitation, lifts me onto his lap.
“You should probably let her—” Luca starts, but Santo cuts him off.
“She stays on my lap. You’ll have to drive slow,” he grits out, his arms locking around me like a shield. His fingers brush over my cheek, circling gently. I wince. The fury in his eyes is instantaneous. When he swipes his thumb over my lip, I see what’s upset them both.
Blood.
My blood.
As the adrenaline wears off, the pain sets in. My face throbs, my arm aches, and exhaustion pulls at my bones. I just want to go home, sink into a warm bath, and forget.
“We’re almost there, Dea,” Santo murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. As if he can hear my thoughts. As if he knows exactly what I need. The low rumble of his voice is a comfort, a steady hum beneath the sharp, pulsing ache that follows every beat of my heart.
Luca takes a sharp turn, and my breath hitches. But Santo’s grip tightens, anchoring me. His hand finds my cheek again, his thumb gliding back and forth in slow, soothing strokes.
Out of nowhere, the tears come. Hot and heavy, they spill down my cheeks, disappearing into the fabric of Santo’s shirt. His body stiffens beneath me at the first splash of them.
“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now. “Don’t cry, Dea.”
But it’s too late. The dam has already broken. My sobs come fast and violent, shaking my body so hard that Santo has to tighten his hold just to keep me from falling apart.
“We’re here,” Luca announces gruffly as the car jerks to a stop. He shuts off the engine, then exits, slamming the door behind him without another word.
Santo doesn’t move. He stays there, holding me, letting me unravel against him, soaking his collar with my grief, my fear, my pain.
“I’m sorry,” I hiccup between sobs. “I shouldn’t have told Romeo not to come with me, I—”
“It’s not your fault.” Santo’s voice is sharp, leaving no room for argument. He grips my chin, tilting my face until our eyes meet. His stare is raw, burning, filled with something so intense it sends a shiver down my spine. “You have nothing to apologize for. No matter what youdo, no matterwhereyou are, no one isallowedto touch you.”
I cling to him as he carries me inside, as if letting go might send me spiraling. Maybe it would.
Maybe Santo knows it, too.
Because he doesn’t put me down. Not as he strides up the stairs. Not as he carries me into our bedroom. Not even as he draws a bath, placing me on the counter for only a moment before stripping off his clothes, then mine.
Then he settles into the water with me, pulling me against his chest.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to.
He just worships.
A warm, sudsy washcloth glides over my skin, slow and careful, as if I’m something fragile. His lips find the back of my neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses between each stroke.
His fingers trace the bruises on my arm, heat radiating from his body as if his very anger might burn them away.
He kisses me then, a quiet press of lips that tastes like devotion, like rage barely restrained, like the silent promise of mine.
And then, as if I’m made of glass, he lifts me from the tub.
He dries me, slow and gentle. Dresses me in my clean pink cotton shorts and tank. Then places me in bed, tucking me beneath the covers before pressing a kiss to my forehead.
I watch as he dresses as if he’s going for a ride sans jacket.
“Where are you going?” My voice comes out dry, my throat raw from hours of silence.
Santo tightens the laces of his boots, his movements precise, deliberate.Lethal.“We have work to do,” he says simply. “We’re assembling our men. This attack was a warning and we’re not waiting for another.”
My stomach twists. “Elena?” I ask, fear creeping into my voice.
