Page 63 of Boy of Ruin
I open my mouth to call his name, but before I can, there’s the scratch of a match.
The smell of Sulphur.
His face inches from mine, illuminating the pale planes of his cheekbones. His midnight blue eyes.
It reminds me of Sanctum.
And that reminds me of...Lazar.
“Mors vincent omnia, pater?” His voice is a snarl. I’m not sure what he’s saying, but that last word. I know that word. He taught me a few Latin basics. Pater is father. He really liked that one, and the thought has me cradling my tummy again.
But just as he blows the match out, the flame licking down toward his long, pale fingers, I catch the glint of the knife.
My blood runs cold, all thoughts of him as a dad…gone.
“Lucifer.” His whispered name is the only thing I manage to say as I step back before his hand comes to my hair, jerking me against him, my back to his chest.
I cry out, hands going to my head, but he’s got the knife against my temple. The sharp end of it, judging by the pinprick of pain that makes my eyes water.
I know how he killed his father.
Not because he told me.
Because Mayhem did. “He drove a knife through his fucking skull.”
I’m not breathing, and I drop my hand back over my belly. He bands his forearm around my chest, and I reach for it, fingers curling around hard muscle, trying to pull him off. He drives the point of the blade in deeper and I feel the warmth of my own blood as I close my eyes tight, trying to inhale. Exhale.
“Lucifer,” I whisper again, tears welling up behind my eyes as he holds the knife steady, his arm around my chest vise-like. “Lucifer, it’s me.” My voice breaks on the last word and blood runs over my eye as my chest caves.
I can’t do this anymore.
One night I woke up with his hand around my throat. Another with a fucking pillow over my face.
He refuses to see a doctor.
The 6 forbid him from going to a therapist.
Maverick suggested the official priest of the 6, Father Tomas, but he came to the house with a whip and if he had whipped my fucking husband, I’d slit his goddamn throat.
But I can’t…I can’t do this.
The tears mingle with my blood, warm and wet down my cheeks. A small sob escapes my mouth because he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t drop the knife.
“Lucifer,” I try again, desperate now. “I’m your wife.”
Time seems to stand still. He doesn’t move. I don’t even feel him breathing at my back, and I’m holding my own breath, waiting.
Then everything happens at once.
The knife falls to the floor with a clatter, Lucifer spins me around, pulls me to his chest as I shake in his arms.
“Oh my god,” he’s saying, his voice hoarse, that cruel snarl gone. “Fuck, Sid, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” His fingers dig into my ribs as he holds me, my arms by my sides. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby girl.” His voice is almost desperate.
Almost pleading.
Like he knows what I’m going to do.
Like he knows I’ve got to get away from him.
