Page 292 of Ruins
“No,” I whisper hoarsely.
I cross the space between us without thinking, my arms wrapping around his waist. My fingers grip him, as if testing the reality of him, before I let them relax—my touch now soft against the tension in his body.
I tilt my head up, my voice steady even as my heart aches.
“You found me.”
I feel him take a deep breath, his chest heaving. His arms encircle me, pulling me closer as he buries his face in my hair.
“What did they do to you?” He whispers desperately into my hair.
My body tenses.
Forcing my eyes to meet his, I change the subject. “I’m hungry.”
His brows furrow. Reluctance… hurt maybe reflects softly on his features before he nods. “I had food delivered, let’s feed you,” he says, attempting a tone of casualness that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He leads me to the kitchen, a simple yet modern space with all the essentials. Breakfast is laid out on the table; eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit.
I take a seat at the table while Santo serves me, his movements stiff, almost jerky—a stark contrast to his usual composed self.
He’s lost in his own thoughts, drowning in the guilt that’s eating away at him.
I watch him in silence, my heart aching for him.
“I promise you, Vasilisa,” he says suddenly, setting a plate in front of me, his voice low but firm. “This willneverhappen again.”
I flash him a small, grateful smile, but I don’t respond. Not because I don’t believe him—I do—but because words feel empty right now.
Instead, I pick up my fork and start eating. The food is delicious, but my mind isn’t on it.
It’s still there, lingering in the darkness of last night.
Santo takes a seat across from me, his gaze heavy, burning into me. His intensity is both comforting and unsettling, like he’s waiting for something.
Once I’m done, he clears the dishes without a word.
But when he returns, reclaiming the seat across from me, his presence feels even heavier.
His jaw is tight. His fingers curl into fists on the table before he exhales sharply, his eyes locking onto mine.
“Tell me what they did.”
His words hang between us like a fragile thread, stretched thin, ready to snap.
With that request, he’s asking for more than just a recounting of events. He’s asking for my pain. My fear. My courage.Everything.
“I—” I start, but the words falter, catching in my throat as memories claw their way to the surface.
“So much blood,” I whisper.
Tears slip down my face, dripping onto my trembling hands. My hands—the ones that carry the weight of the lives I took.
“I have blood on my hands.”
Santo moves before I even process it, rounding the table, kneeling beside me. His hands find my face, cradling me like I might break.
“No, Dea,” he murmurs, his voice soft but unshakable. “This isnotyour fault. I wasn’t there. I should have been.” His thumb brushes away my tears. “The blood is onmyhands.”
I look at him through my tear-blurred vision, wanting to believe him.
