Page 170 of Ruins
“You’re hiding Scythe.”
The name slams into me like a blade. My gut twists.
“No,” I deny, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
Angelo scoffs. “You don’t think she can handle that?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
“She’s innocent,” I finally say, the words rasping from my throat. “She’s pure. She’s good. And I’m—”
“What she’s used to,” Angelo cuts in. “She grew up with Maks. He’s worse than you.” He chuckles darkly. “Hell, the son of a bitch is worse than me half the time.”
My hands tremble. I flex my fingers, forcing control back into them.
“I’ll go home to her,” I mutter. “Just... not right now. Not in the middle of all this.” I gesture vaguely, my chest tightening as I try to grasp something—anything—to make sense of this.
Angelo watches me for a long moment. Then he sighs, shaking his head in disbelief. “If you don’t want to protect your wife, then I will.” His voice is final. “Maksim entrusted you with her safety, and you just passed her off to your fucking guards.”
“She’s fine,”I repeat, but it sounds hollow.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, little brother.” Angelo stands. “Get some sleep, you look like shit. I’ll take the meeting with Maks tonight and fill you in in the morning.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
I should go home.
But I don’t.
***
Restless and plagued by thoughts of Vasilisa, I spent the night watching surveillance footage of her sleeping peacefully. Now, I sit in my office, eyes locked on the live feed, my exhaustion barely registering beneath the tight coil of anger inside me. She’s at breakfast with Luca and Romeo, laughing—radiant.
It’s the kind of laughter that makes a man forget the world is cruel. The kind of happiness I should be giving her.
But I’m not there.
A sudden urge grips me—to call them away, to remind them they’re soldiers, not her damn entertainment. They should be watching the surroundings, not her face. But I stay silent, transfixed, caught in the sheer light of her.
And then he walks in.
Angelo.
He moves straight to her, his confidence so casual it’s infuriating. He leans down, places a kiss on her cheek—mywife’s cheek—and his hand settles possessively at her waist. My blood turns molten, burning through my veins as I watch him help her off the stool, leading her toward the kitchen pantry.
Before he disappears with my girl, he turns his head—eyes locking onto mine through the surveillance camera.
And the asshole grins.
A sharp, taunting grin that sends a white-hot surge of fury through me.
My fist slams against the desk. The impact echoes through the room, but it does nothing to quell the rage boiling beneath my skin. I curse myself for not installing cameras on the ground floor. It had never seemed necessary before—Vasilisa didn’t know about that floor, and only Angelo and I had access.
A mistake. One I’ll correct the second I return home.
But I can’t go home.
Not yet.
