Page 81 of Ruins
He nods, stepping back toward the door, but not before lingering. As if second-guessing leaving me alone. The door slams shut behind him. Silence descends—thick, suffocating. The only sounds left are ragged breaths.
His.
Mine.
The man forces himself to stand, but his legs buckle. He drops again.
He doesn’t fight. They never do at this point.
The ones who survive more than a day down here know better.
I crack my knuckles, stepping closer. “Last chance to plead innocence before we get started.”
He shakes his head violently, tears already pooling.
Some part of me acknowledges his fear. Recognizes it as a testament to my own power, but most of me is too far gone to care. I don’t waste another second.
I pull back and swing.
Bone cracks under my fist. Pain explodes through my knuckles. A sweet, biting relief. For the first time tonight, I feel something.
And it’s nother.
I swing again. Flesh gives. Blood spatters.
I lose count of the hits.
The roar in my head drowns out the cries. Each punch is a release. Each blow is a distraction.
Each crack of bone is a moment where I don’t feel her soft, sweet-scented skin. Her innocent eyes staring up at me with the glaring fact that she deserves more than a man like me.
Amonsterlike me.
***
I pull into the estate, but instead of parking in front I veer toward the underground garage. The car hums to a stop beneath my home, safe from prying eyes. I pass my gym and indoor pool, moving straight for the elevator.
A quick press of my thumb against the scanner, and the hidden elevator hums to life, carrying me up through the walls of my home. It was installed as a precaution—an escape route if an attack ever came. Usually, I’d take it all the way up to the master bedroom closet, but that room belongs to Vasilisa now.
The thought of her sends a sharp, unwelcome ache through me. This house is hers as much as it’s mine now, and tomorrow, I’ll have to show her around. I push the thought aside and take the stairs up to my new room.
Light spills from under the master bedroom door. It’s almost three in the morning. She should be asleep.
I should keep walking.
Instead, my feet betray me, carrying me to her door before I have a chance to second-guess myself. My hand moves before my mind does, twisting the knob. The door gives way without resistance.
The dim light casts a soft glow around the sitting room, illuminating Vasilisa perched on the window nook. In her hand, she holds a book - not just any book, butVita Nuova.
My heartachesat the sight of her.
She runs a hand through her glossy hair, the shadows play across her face, accentuating her features. Light catches on the delicate curve of her jaw, the gentle slope of her neck. Her plush lips move soundlessly as she reads, captivating me in their every movement.
The sight is mesmerizing, but my attention is soon drawn to what she’s wearing - or rather, what she’s barely wearing.
Lingerie. Sheer white lace clings to her body, teasing, barely concealing anything. The transparent robe draped over her is open, useless, falling off one shoulder like an afterthought.
The delicate lace bra hugs her breasts perfectly and it’s enough to break my resolve. Her smooth stomach leads down to lace underwear that leaves nothing to the imagination - held on by mere string. And those legs - smooth and perfect - are crossed provocatively, daring me to touch her.
