Page 275 of Ruins
As we finish our meal, a rare calm settles over me.
This is what it’s all about—coming home to Vasilisa after a long day of work and strife. The thought of losing this. Losingherbecause of Miroslav and the Armenians stirs up a quiet fury deep inside me.
Before the darkness can take hold, Vasilisa reaches across the table, her fingers wrapping around mine, grounding me. “Where’d you go just now? What’s wrong?”
I squeeze her hand, shaking my head at her concern. “Nothing, Dea. Just tired from today.”
She lets go of my hand, reluctant, hesitant, but changes the subject to the manuscript I gave her, giving my raging thoughts a moment of respite.
Once dinner is over, I escort Vasilisa back upstairs. She changes into one of my shirts, oversized on her small frame, quickly becoming her favorite nightdress. I follow suit, shrugging out of my suit and pulling on a pair of sweats.
When we settle into bed, she curls against me, head resting over my heart, where she belongs. I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, keeping her safe. As her breathing slows, her body softening into sleep, I make a silent vow. I will do everything in my power to keep this war from touching her. Our future rests in the balance, but I am ready to take downanyonewho dares to threaten it.
Tomorrow, it all ends.
For now, though, I let the rhythmic sound of Vasilisa’s breathing lull me into a fitful sleep.
Chapter 55
Vasilisa
Thehouseisquietin the morning. Santo and I have breakfast together, the silence stretching between us, thick but not uncomfortable. Later, he trails beside me in the garden as I pick flowers for the vases around the house, his movements slow, almost hesitant. In the library, he lounges on the chaise, watching as I paint. His eyes never leave me—not once, not even when I glance at him.
It would be romantic if it didn’t feel like goodbye. As if he were committing me to memory.
The afternoon leads us to our bedroom. I sit cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through my laptop, looking up the classes I’ll have to retake and the new ones I’ll need to add to my roster. Across the room, Santo lingers in the closet, pretending to busy himself with something, but I can feel his gaze, searing into me.
Burning a hole right through me. I snap the laptop shut. My eyes meet his. He doesn’t even bother to look away. Doesn’t pretend.
He just stares.
“What is it?” I huff, frustration creeping into my voice. “I know tonight is big, but you’re acting like you’re going to die, Santo.”
He strides toward me, his expression masked, but I don’t stop.
“Are you not confident in the plan you guys made?”
Instead of answering, Santo takes the laptop from my lap and sets it on the nightstand with careful precision. Then, without hesitation, he climbs onto the bed, pressing forward until I’m forced to fall back.
He moves over me, his body settling between my legs, caging me in. The weight of him, the heat, the way his forearms press into the mattress on either side of my head—it should feel suffocating, but it doesn’t. It feels inevitable.
His eyes rake over my face, scanning, memorizing, before his hands cradle my cheeks, his touch almost reverent. My fingers trail along his back in soft, soothing strokes, but the tension in his muscles remains rigid beneath my touch.
“Santo, what is it?” My voice is softer now, pleading. “What aren’t you telling me?”
His only answer is his lips.
He crashes into me, his mouth urgent, devouring mine with a desperation that sends a shiver down my spine. His tongue slips past my lips effortlessly, taking, claiming, as if salvation lies in my kiss and he’s desperate to steal it from me.
“Santo,” I gasp when his lips break away, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck. I arch beneath him, my breath uneven. “Please, tell me.”
But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hesitate. He only moves, pressing his lips, his tongue against my skin, setting fire to the need pooling low in my stomach. His fingers slip beneath my blouse, pushing it up and over my head with quiet efficiency. My own hands reach for him, tugging at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel him, to take from him as much as he’s taking from me.
If he won’t talk, I suppose I’ll just have to give in.
And satiate us both.
