Page 115 of Boy of Ruin
Relief runs through me like a welcome warmth.
If she didn’t sleep with him, if she didn’t give that part of herself to my worst fucking enemy, then I can live with this. I can deal with this.
I can fix it.
“No?” I question her, leaning down so my mouth touches hers. Her warm breath, fresh and alive and for me, caresses my lips, and that relief seems to explode through my veins. “You didn’t, baby girl? You were all mine, all this time?” My voice almost breaks on that last question, but I don’t care.
She’s seen the worst of me.
The best of me.
She’s seen all of me. I don’t care if she hears how weak I am for her. How weak I’ve always been for her.
“Yes,” she tells me, her soft, plush lips brushing mine. “Yes, Lucifer.”
Hearing her say my name makes me hard and soft all at once. Hard for her, my dick aching to have her hands on it. Her mouth. Her. And soft, because I’m melting with those words.
I’m melting and drowning all at once, like fire and ice, because she’s mine.
She’s still my girl.
My fucking wife.
I regret everything I did with Ophelia. Ella. Julie. Maverick. I feel sick just thinking about it now. I hope to Satan she’ll understand. When I tell her everything—because I have to, she deserves to know—I hope she’ll forgive me and—
“Let me see him,” she demands, cutting through my thoughts. Reminding me why I’m here.
That this isn’t a reunion.
“Don’t you dare hurt him.” Her voice is a whisper, and her words are a plea.
My anger is back, and I regret the lines I did on the way here, at the gas station when we all stopped so I could take a piss. Mav thought I was sober.
Thought I didn’t take shit when I drove here.
He’s an idiot.
My pulse is thrumming in my jaw, and I pull Sid away from the door, yanking her hand, dragging her behind me.
“Don’t tell me what the fuck to do,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder in the dark. I see the gleam of her eyes and nothing else. “You’re done fucking making decisions.”
There’s nothing in the living room except…wreckage. The couch is flipped over, the chair too. There’s a bottle of vodka shattered on the floor, the sharp scent of alcohol coating the room like the fear is coating my mouth.
Did they do this because they can? Did they hurt him?
Lucifer holds my hand tightly, making the bones ache. I barely notice it. It’s just a dull pain in the background of my panic.
It’s silent now, and beyond the closed curtains I see slivers of darkness.
Lucifer yanks me toward the door and I stumble in my black sneakers, but then he turns.
I see him.
For the first time in a month, I see him.
He looks…awful.
There are dark shadows beneath his beautiful blue eyes. His cheeks are gaunt, more defined than they usually are, which is saying something. His black curls are a little longer, past his ears, messy and tousled, one flopped just above one eye. He’s always been so pale, but the veins are so stark against his skin, his ropey muscles leaner than before I left him.
