Page 197 of Ruins
His hold tightens just a fraction and I wrap my arms around his neck. Before I can say another word, he presses a lingering kiss to my forehead, his lips warm against my skin as we ascend.
The elevator doors open to a dark wooden wall. Santo reaches out, pressing against it revealing the bright lights of the library and I gasp at the realization that the elevator is hidden behind a bookshelf.
“I don’t know anything about this house,” I whisper in awe, running my fingers along the nearest row of books.
Santo’s jaw tightens, his expression guilty. “I suppose that’s my fault.”
I laugh softly, reaching up to cup his cheek, tracing my thumb over the sharp line of his jaw. “It was a joke, Santo. Now, can you put me down so I can show you?”
His gaze lingers on mine for a moment, something flickering there before he exhales and lowers me gently to the ground.
I grab his hand and pull him toward the front of the library, where my easels stand in a quiet, reverent display. The look on his face as he takes in every canvas is worth the wait.
Every painting is of him.
Santo in his office the day we met. Him across from me at La Serenata on our first date. Standing at the end of the aisle. Us in the garden. Sitting at the dining table before walking away from me. His face before he slammed the door on mine. His back tattoo, wrapped only in a towel. Leaning in the doorway in that navy suit.
Each brushstroke is a memory—some tender, some painful. But all of them are him.
I watch the way his fists clench and unclench as he moves from one canvas to another, his expression shifting. He is silent as stone, absorbing every detail with something close to reverence, but there’s an undercurrent of sadness in his gaze, something raw and unspoken.
He lingers in front of the painting of him across from me at La Serenata. Our first real night together. The moment we tried to connect despite the circumstances pressing in on us. In the morning light streaming through the tall windows, I see his shoulders ease, his stormy eyes softening.
“Vasilisa,” he finally speaks, his voice raw. “Why...?”
I swallow hard. “Because each moment mattered to me... good or bad, because it’syou.”
His gaze locks onto mine, heavy with something I can’t name. He steps closer, cupping my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing along my cheeks with aching gentleness.
“I didn’t realize... you didn’t say it after I did,” he mutters, studying me as though the answer is written on my skin. “But you don’t say it, do you? You show it.”
“I’m an artist,” I whisper. “We express, not tell.”
We stand there, suspended in time, faces close, breath mingling, surrounded by painted fragments of our story. The air between us hums with something electric—understanding, longing, something deeper than words.
“You’re not just...” I hesitate, then press on. “You’re not just a duty. I’m not just being a dutiful wife.”
His eyes darken with emotion as he presses his forehead to mine. “And last night... it wasn’t just about lust.”
A shiver runs through me at his admission, my heart pounding, my throat tightening. Before I can find words, his arms tightens around my waist, pulling me flush against him. My arms wind around his neck, and he lifts me, my legs wrapping around him, his lips finding mine.
Between kisses, I murmur shamelessly, “Does this mean I can have more orgasms without the serious conversations?”
His laughter rumbles against my lips, deep and warm.
“Only if you stop trying to hide this body from me,” he whispers, slipping a finger beneath the shoulder of my robe and easing it down, exposing my bare skin to his hungry gaze.
I freeze.
He knew.
He knew I hadn’t wanted him to see my body last night.
Santo nuzzles against my neck, his lips pressing soft, open mouth kisses along my skin, sending shivers down my spine.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” His voice is quiet, not accusing, just knowing.
“I...” My breath hitches, but the words won’t come. His hands skim down my sides, grounding me in his touch.
