Page 291 of Ruins
His fingers twine with mine, holding my hand against his face. “It was more for me Dea, you get a nice new home and I get you.”
A smile tugs at my lips, “It’s for both of us then, because I love being close to you.”
He presses a kiss to my hand before letting it go and sighing deeply.
“Is everyone okay?” I ask quietly.
“There were some casualties, we lost some guards,” he admits, his gaze darkening at the memory. “But everyone else is safe.”
“Romeo?”
“Vaska sent word that his wound was a clean shot through the shoulder, he’ll be fine.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I remember Angelo was there, is he alright?”
His eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of discontentment flashes in his eyes. “Angelo... well, if I’m going to tell you this Dea then I need to tell you everything, but I don’t want to put any more on you then you already have.”
“Please,” I beg him, “I want to know.”
He shakes his head, and I want to protest, but my eyes start to flutter shut, my body demanding rest. I fight it, suddenly afraid of the nightmares that will come.
Santo seems to understand. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t hesitate. He just lays beside me, pulling me in, his arms wrapping around me, holding me together.
“Sleep, Dea,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “You’re safe. I’m not leaving you.”
His promise is the last thing I hear before exhaustion finally claims me, and everything goes dark.
I wake up alone.
Disoriented, my body feels heavy, my mind sluggish. Santo’s side of the bed is cold.Empty.
For a moment, panic gnaws at me.
Pushing off the covers, I scan the room, searching. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and I step inside—only to stop in my tracks.
The mirror.
I freeze.
I’m clean, but it’s the marks on my skin that steal my breath. Angry purple bruises, scattered across my body like abstract art.
Tears bloom in my eyes as the memories hit, sharp and merciless.
Hands—grabbing me, touching me.
Soulless, dark eyes.
The lives I took.
Blood. So much blood.
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head, trying to force the images away.Not now. Not now.
Reentering the bedroom, my chest still tight, I find Santo standing by the door. He’s dressed in nothing but sweatpants, his broad frame shadowed in the dim morning light.
His eyes find me—and Iknow.His eyes reflect raw pain as they skate over me, falling on each bruise with a quiet fury.
“I should have been there,” he says quietly, his voice heavy with guilt.
