Page 24 of Boy of Ruin
Her hands are still against my chest, and she slides them around my ribs, to my back, bringing me closer to her small body.
I look into her eyes again as I let go of her arm, moving my own hand from her chest and pulling her close to me in an embrace.
She seems to deflate against me. Like she knows I’ll always hold her up. I’ll always be what she needs me to be, even if I do it all…wrong.
“I’m worried for you,” she says, her words vibrating against my bare chest. “I love you, you know that? I love you, and I’m scared for you.”
My heart cracks in two with those words as I slide one hand up her back, to her hair, threading my fingers through the soft strands.
My chin is on her head as I speak. “I love you so fucking much. I’m terrified to lose you. I’m scared someone is going to take you from me.”
She doesn’t say anything. She just holds me tighter.
“I’m scared you’re going to leave.” I can barely breathe with that admission, especially as she doesn’t say a word. She’s the only good thing I’ve ever had in my life. The only thing that makes it all…bearable. “I’m so scared you’re going to run again.”
She keeps clinging to me.
But she doesn’t say a word.
As if she’s going to do exactly that.
Run.
In the passenger seat of Mav’s car, I inhale from my cigarette, watching the cherry glow bright in the darkness of the night, made ever darker by his illegally tinted windows. Pinching the butt between my thumb and forefinger, I toss it out the crack in the window and hear Maverick scoff.
Turning my head and exhaling through my nose, I arch a brow in a silent question as he stares at me.
I try to let it go. The anger I feel when I look at him. What he did to me. To us.
He’s got one hand on the wheel of the Audi—far less conspicuous than the McLaren—and one on the gearshift, even though we’ve been parked outside of this fucking house for an hour now.
Probably aren’t going anywhere for at least another hour.
“You shouldn’t leave your DNA everywhere,” he mutters, jerking his head to the window I just tossed the cigarette out of. “And you shouldn’t smoke in my car.”
I just stare at him a second, his light blue eyes eerily bright even in the darkness. Then I lift my hips and reach behind me, pulling something out of the back pocket of my black jeans.
Settling down in the seat again and waving the little baggie so he can see it, I say, “In that case, I’ll just rail a line.” Shrugging, I start to open up the bag, but he snatches it from my hand, tosses it into the pocket of the driver’s side door without taking his eyes off of me.
A flood of anger rushes through my veins, because I really do need that shit, but before I can say anything he snarls, “Pay attention, Luce, goddammit.” He grinds both hands on the wheel, tearing his eyes from me and glancing at the ranch-style brick house we’re parked two doors down from at the end of a sleepy suburban cul-de-sac. “You need to get some fucking help.” He doesn’t look at me as he says those words, which makes my throat feel like it’s closing up.
It’s like he means what he’s saying. A hard truth that he’d rather not really face right now.
I laugh, a hoarse sound, devoid of humor. Running my palms down my jeans, I stare at the front door of the house we’re watching, too. A man with more information than he should have lives here. Hacked through a firewall he should’ve never been able to get into. Works for a tech company that could help spread some information he should’ve never seen.
Obviously, he’s going to die tonight.
But the 6 need him brought in, so they can figure out who he said what to.
A quick glance at the clock on the center console, and I see it’s nearly three in the morning.
After this shit, we’re supposed to meet at Sanctum for Council.
I’m getting that coke back from Maverick, even if I have to break his nose to do it.
“I don’t need help,” I mutter, clenching my hands into fists, thinking about the scar slashed across my palm in the shape of an X. I need her. I don’t say those last words, because he already knows. He knows, too, that the longer I spend without her, the more likely Jeremiah is to kill her, my fucking baby, or…worse.
Make her his.
