Page 90 of Ruins
Instead, his hand finds mine again.
He lowers himself beside me, his touch firmer this time. More certain.
“I can do as you ask.” My voice is softer now. “But I want something.”
His brow furrows slightly, intrigued. A flicker of dark amusement dances through his stormy gaze. “What do you want?”
The word‘you’is on the tip of my tongue, but instead, I choose something safer. Something easier.
“I want to continue university.”
His expression shifts, the tension in his frame coiling tight. His eyebrows rise so fast I almost regret saying it.
But I press on. “Online. I want to take courses online.”
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.
Then, relief floods his features. His smirk is back, slow, calculated, something possessive curling at the edges.
“Of course.”
His grip on my hand tightens slightly, just for a second, before he relaxes.
“I’ll have a laptop brought to you as soon as tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, staring at our joined hands, my fingers brushing over his in a way that feels dangerously natural.
His thumb nudges under my chin, lifting my gaze to his.
“What are you studying?”
“Business,” I answer simply.
His smirk deepens. “Smart girl.”
His knuckles skim across my cheek, a barely-there touch.
I lean into it.
We spend what feels like hours beneath our pink canopy, sharing stories and laughter as petals fall softly around us.
I tell him about my childhood, about the days spent running through endless fields of sunflowers and tall grass, with nothing but laughter as my guide. He listens, his thumb absently grazing the back of my hand, and when I pause, he speaks.
“My mother loved flowers.” His voice is quieter now, softer, as if the memory is something delicate. “She had them everywhere—lining windowsills, filling drawing rooms, even the bathrooms. I used to joke that she was trying to turn the whole house into a garden.”
I smile at the thought. The most dangerous man I know was raised in a home overflowing with flowers.
For some reason, this moment feels… natural. He keeps his hold on my hand, his fingers strong, steady.
I lean my head on his shoulder, and he doesn’t pull away.
For a long moment, we just sit there. No walls, no expectations, no weight of Cosa Nostra hanging over us.
The heady fragrance of magnolias, the sweet scent of roses, the crisp undertones of fresh greenery— it all wraps around us, intoxicating as any wine.
Then, a breeze rolls through the garden, shaking the branches above us.
A rain of petals cascades down over us. I gasp, delighted, squealing as I lift my hand to catch them.
