Page 87 of Ruins
It slices through the space, firm, final, impossible to ignore.
Even Julian pauses.
Santo stands, his movements controlled, deliberate. “Let’s continue. I need to show you the library, where you’ll be painting.”
I can’t help the excited gasp that escapes me. “Now?”
Santo chuckles. “Of course.”
He extends his hand. I take it without hesitation. The way his fingers close around mine, firm, warm, certain, makes my breath hitch.
He leads me out of the kitchen, guiding me through the vastness of his home like it’s second nature.
We ascend the grand staircase, the wood polished to a gleaming shine. My fingers drift along the intricate carvings of the banister, tracing the silent stories etched into them.
Santo walks with quiet authority, his grip steady, unyielding, yet somehow… gentle.
The route to the library is labyrinthine, winding through halls steeped in history. The walls shimmer with tapestries and gilded frames, bathed in the soft glow of antique chandeliers.
I should be taking it all in. But it’s him that holds my focus.
His presence. His touch. The way he commands a room without a word.
“This is the east wing,” he finally speaks, his voice low and steady, echoing slightly in the grand expanse. “Most of these quarters are reserved for the staff if they choose to stay. Or for guests.”
Before I can respond, he pushes open a set of double doors. I step inside—and stop breathing.
The library.
Shelves stretch up and up, towering toward a vaulted glass ceiling. Sunlight streams in, filtering through the dust particles dancing in the air. The scent of aged paper, polished wood, and something distinctly Santo wraps around me.
And then—I see them.
The easels.
Near the massive windows, bathed in natural light.
My heart stutters. I already know. This will be my sanctuary.
A place where I can exist. Create. Lose myself in color.
Santo’s voice pulls me back. “Do you like it?”
His gaze is on me, not the room.
I look up, meeting his stormy eyes, hoping he can see what I feel— the gratitude, the relief.
“Like it?” The words barely leave me. I swallow, breathless. “Santo, it’s... it’s beautiful.”
His grip on my hand tightens—just slightly, but I feel it.
A small smile plays on his lips, brief and quiet.
He leads me through the space, showing me every detail, every hidden corner, every untouched book.
The silence between us isn’t empty. It’s weighted. Charged.
A quiet storm waiting to break, but he says nothing as we leave the library.
