Page 11 of Boy of Ruin
“You don’t believe me?” I demand, locking eyes with my brother, hating that my words come out hoarse. Hesitant. “Why didn’t you come to me with that?”
He stares at me a second, biting his lip as his gaze sweeps over me, from head to toe and back again.
A flush runs through my body with his stare, and I hate that I feel something when he looks at me like that. Like he wants me.
I cross my arms over my chest, knowing he knows what he’s doing to me by that slight smile on his full lips. “I never said I didn’t believe you, Sid.”
Ria scoffs, and Jeremiah’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t look away from me. Shaking her head, Ria walks past him, muttering something that sounds like, “I’m out.”
We listen to her footsteps retreat, then echo down the stairs.
“Don’t play those fucking games with me,” I tell Jeremiah, stepping closer. I catch his clean scent, like fresh laundry and a hint of his cologne or deodorant. He smells so damn good and he looks even better. He’s becoming impossible to resist. But my heart doesn’t belong to him. At least, not all of it.
At least…that’s what I try to tell myself.
“I’m not a child you need to keep in a cage.” I snarl the last word and see his jaw tick. He refuses to talk to me about that fucking cage, so I refuse to tiptoe around what happened to him. “Talk to me. Let me be equal to you—”
He reaches out a hand, grabs my arm and yanks me flush against him. My hands come to his chest as he glares down at me, and I can feel his heart beating strong and sure beneath my palm.
“You want equality?” he asks, condescension in his tone. “Never mind bullshit about your mental health. Get out of these fucking clothes and into the right ones, then come down to the gym. If you can finally fight me off, I’ll treat you like an equal.” His words are whispers against the shell of my ear as his hand comes to my back, slipping up my shirt, pressed flat against my spine. “If you can’t, then you’ll stop fucking questioning me.”
* * *
“No, baby, that’s not…that’s just not right.” Jeremiah shakes his head, sighing, but there’s a smirk pulling on the corners of his full lips. He bows his head, hands on his hips as he steps back from me. He’s shirtless, drenched in sweat, and I see it glistening down his hard body. I see the scar too, not quite healed, still angry, red, and raised.
Right under his ribs.
The scar from my husband.
It’s a miracle Jeremiah survived. Then again, he’s always believed he was a god. I guess it makes sense he’s nearly immortal.
His mood has lightened since he’s kicked my ass over and over, and I know the feeling. Workouts help me forget all the heavy stuff.
For a little while.
“I don’t wanna do this anymore,” I tell him, wiping the back of my hand over my brow. I’m sweating too, in a sports bra and running shorts, my feet in black sneakers. We’ve been in the basement gym for the past two hours.
He picks his head up, his jade eyes full of amusement as his gaze meets mine.
“Your form is just all…wrong. Your legs are what’s free, right? You can’t expect to squirm your way out of my grip. It just won’t happen, Sid.” There’s a double meaning to those words, and I see it in the way his eyes light up as his gaze slides down my body.
I ignore the warmth spooling in my core with that look. His words. Instead, I tighten my ponytail and turn my back to him, headed to the stairs at the corner of the room, ready for breakfast. I’ve read, in the baby book that Jeremiah bought me and left on my nightstand one night, that I’m lucky I don’t have morning sickness.
Still, I’m fucking starving, all the time, and after our disagreement in the doorway of my room, I didn’t eat, ready to shut his ass up.
I haven’t.
“I don’t need to fight. I’m good at running, if you haven’t noticed by now.”
But before I can take two steps, his arm bands around my chest, yanking me back against his sweaty body.
His other hand finds my throat, and my breath leaves me in a rush, just like it did last night.
I’m frozen, my heart pounding so loud in my chest it hurts.
I can’t breathe, especially as his hand trails down to my bare waist, his fingers light against my skin. His grip on my throat is tight, but not painful.
Not yet.
