Page 130 of Ruins
I lower myself beside him, my voice just a whisper, soft,menacing.
“Your turn.”
His body tenses, his breath shaky in anticipation, dread or both.
I repeat my previous actions, but this time, I take my time, dragging the blade down his face, watching as blood pools in the jagged line I create.
Pain follows, predictable and sharp, and then, he breaks.
They always do.
The grueling hours roll by as I work my way through various methods of persuasion. Slicing and cauterizing the wounds I make to prolong the necessary torture to get the information we need.
With dawn seeping in through cracks and holes of the warehouse, they finally break–spilling secrets like water from a broken dam. Miroslav’s treachery unfolds before us; an unknown deal he made with our enemies, no longer a secret whispered within closed doors.
Maksim lets out a grunt of approval as I clean my blade, preparing to leave.
And then, the shift happens.
My mind returns and all I want is to go home. I want toholdVasilisa, remind her that she is safe. I want to crawl into the warmth of her presence and forget what I just did here.
But Scythe won’t allow me reprieve. He reminds me that it is because ofmethat she cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 27
Vasilisa
Santodidn’tcomehomelast night.
The morning is eerily quiet, the kind of silence that seeps into the bones, heavy and suffocating. Amelia brought my breakfast to the library, but it sits untouched on my plate, the scent of warm eggs and herbs turning my stomach. I have no appetite. Not after last night.
Not after the way helookedat me.
The memory replays in my mind, sharp and unforgiving—the cold detachment in Santo’s eyes, the way he slammed the door in my face, like I had committed some unforgivable crime.
I grip the fork in my hand, my fingers tightening around the cool metal before I drop it, letting it clang against the plate, and return to my painting.
I don’t understand him. When he suggested I spend time with Luca instead, it felt like a slap in the face. Like I was something to be passed off, discarded.
But then, later that night, he came into my room—his touch soft, reverent as he brushed a strand of hair from my face.
Gentle.
Loving.
A stark contrast to the man who had abandoned me just moments before.
Who is my husband, really?
The hot and cold nature of his affections unravel me. One moment, he looks at me like I am something precious, somethingworthy. Then the next, he turns away as if I’m a mistake he regrets making.
I don’t know which version of him isreal.
I swallow hard, forcing the lump down my throat, blinking against the sting in my eyes.
I was raised to be a good wife.
Stay silent.
