Page 115 of Ruins
Not when all I want to do is drag her upstairs and show her exactly who she belongs to.
“Excuse me,” I say curtly, my voice clipped, betraying the restraint I’m barely holding onto.
She looks up, startled. “Santo?”
“I need to rest.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I force it out anyway before turning sharply on my heel and stalking toward my study.
The moment I shut the door behind me, darkness swallows me whole. The controlled facade I wore at dinner shatters as I slam my fist onto the desk with a force that rattles the objects atop it. A sharp sting explodes through my knuckles, grounding me in something real, something other than the jealousy clawing through my insides like a rabid beast.
I welcome the pain.
It’s better than this maddening rage.
Stalking toward the bar, I grab the decanter of whiskey and pour a generous amount into a glass. The amber liquid gleams under the dim light, swirling like molten gold—deceptively warm, just like the anger simmering beneath my skin. I throw it back in one go, the burn rushing down my throat, but it does nothing to quench the fire.
The glass clinks heavily as I set it down, my jaw tightening as the silence presses in. She’s just outside this room. Close enough to touch, to pull into my arms. Close enough to pin beneath me and lose myself in until every thought of any other man is erased from her mind.
Yet she feels untouchable.
Like a mirage—something beautiful and fleeting, something I can’t reach without destroying myself in the process.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
“Santo?”
Her voice is quiet, laced with concern. It spears through me, cutting through the haze of whiskey and jealousy.
I turn, but don’t answer. I don’t trust myself to.
If I open that door, I’ll either say something I regret or fall to my knees for her, and I refuse to do either.
She tries again. “Santo,” she murmurs, her voice impossibly soft. I hear a faint thud against the door—her hands, perhaps. She’s waiting for me, waiting for an answer I don’t have. “What’s wrong?”
I close my eyes and exhale through my nose, dragging my fingers through my hair. My breath is uneven, ragged, but I force out the lie anyway. “I’m just tired.”
Silence.
I can feel her hesitation through the damn door, but eventually, she relents. “Okay.”
The soft click of her heels echoes through the hallway, fading with each step she takes away from me.
I sink onto the couch, pressing my fingers into the bridge of my nose, willing myself to calm down. To be rational. But the image of her dances before my closed eyelids; that beautiful dress hugging her body tight, her hair cascading around her shoulders in golden waves and those bright hopeful eyes boring into mine.How can I stay angry when every fiber of my being yearns for her?
Julian.
I can’t fucking kill my chef.
The thought is so ridiculous it almost makes me laugh. Julian has been nothing but loyal, and I know—I know—he did nothing wrong. This jealousy is mine alone. This vicious, unfamiliar possessiveness is a monster of my own making.
I exhale harshly and pull out my phone, texting Julian.‘Take your vacation early. Double pay.’
His response is immediate, overflowing with gratitude. The moment I see his thanks, some of the pressure inside me loosens, just enough to let me think clearly.
I text Mrs. Keen next.‘Can you return tomorrow?’
As soon as I hit send, my phone rings. I sigh and reluctantly answer.
“What’s going on, Santo?” Mrs. Keen’s voice is warm but inquisitive, cutting through the thick silence of my study.
