Page 38 of Ruins
Santo nods and leaves my space, sitting behind his desk again.
I’ve spoken myself into a corner and embarrassed myself in front of him.
For what seems like an eternity, Santo remains silent, his gaze fixed on a distant point over my shoulder. A multitude of questions dance in his eyes, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve overstepped some unspoken boundary.
Yet all he does is glance down at his glass desk, his fingers drumming a rhythmic pattern against the smooth surface. Finally, he looks at me, a newfound curiosity etching his features.
“Vasilisa,” he says, his voice smooth, like melting chocolate as he tastes my name, “that’s quite a story.”
“It’s just a silly fairy tale my father used to tell,” I reply hastily, wishing I could take back my confession.
It seems too immature, toopersonalnow that the words had been said out loud.
There’s a brief flicker of something in Santo’s eyes - recognition? Empathy? - but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“Fairy tales can tell us much more about ourselves than we think,” he says thoughtfully.
His eyes meet mine once again, and this time they’re softer - less the predator on the hunt and more... human.
He leans back into his chair and folds his arms across his broad chest.
“It shows,” he begins slowly, “that you are an optimist. That you believe in love and magic.”
A blush involuntarily heats my cheeks as I lower my gaze, overwhelmed by him.
The room falls silent once more, save for the distant hum of the party outside and the tick-tick-tick of an old clock mounted on the wall behind me.
“Were you waiting for your prince to find it?” Santo’s voice is low, almost like he’s asking a question he doesn’t want the answer to.
Taken aback by his question, I look up to find him observing me with an intensity that immediately sets my heart racing again.
“I... I don’t know,” I admit. “I suppose part of me always hoped so.”
“Silly girl,” Santo murmurs, his eyes still locked on mine. There’s no mockery—just warmth, edged with something else. Something that makes my pulse trip over itself.
Even with his eyes boring into mine, I find comfort in his gaze. Maybe Santo isn’t a cold, distant man like I feared he might be, but I could be just another naïve girl swept away by a handsome face.
“I can’t offer you a desk made from enchanted wood,” Santo says, his voice measured as he pulls open a drawer. From inside, he retrieves a slender metal tool, its tip gleaming under the low light.
I watch, curiosity prickling at my skin as he leans forward and begins carving something into the glass desk with deliberate, steady strokes.
“I don’t have fairy tale trees or immortalized love stories,” he murmurs, his focus still on the desk. “But maybe… we could make our own.”
With a final swipe of his hand, he brushes away the lingering dust and places the tool back in the drawer. Then, he motions for me to come closer.
I hesitate for only a moment before stepping forward, standing beside his chair. When I look down, my breath catches.
Two initials, intertwined on the glass surface. V & S.
My heart stumbles at the sight, warmth blooming in my chest and spreading outward until I can feel the heat creeping into my face. Slowly, I lift my gaze to his. He’s watching me closely, his expression neutral.
“I—” I begin, but the words tangle on my tongue. He has taken my childhood story, the one I had just clumsily blurted out in nervous embarrassment, and turned it into something real.
Santo rises, the space between us closing in an instant. Towering over me, his presence is undeniable. The tension from before still lingers, but there’s something softer now, something quieter.
He stands there in silence, waiting for me to speak. But I don’t know what to say. All I can hear is my own heartbeat, its pounding echoing through my ears, filling the silence between us.
Desperate to focus on something—anything—else, I glance down at his desk, my eyes sweeping over the surface. And then I see it.
