Page 131 of Boy of Ruin
I only placed my thumb over the lever. Some kind of rich prick shit that I didn’t even know existed until I got involved in this fucked up world.
Who the fuck is inside my house?
I don’t move, frozen at the bottom of the stairs, one foot on the step above me. My palm grows sweaty against the railing as I hear another creak, then steady steps, coming down the hall. My eyes dart up and I have this sinking feeling in my gut.
Because those steps are coming from my bedroom.
Our bedroom.
Who the fuck is that?
A sour taste coats the inside of my mouth and just when I think about charging up these damn stairs to confront whoever the fuck it is, I hear a voice.
Calling my husband’s name.
“Lucifer?” A feminine voice, uncertain and cautious. The steps grow closer, and as I tilt my head back, looking up, I see her.
My stomach churns as she says his name again, because she hasn’t seen me. She’s running a hand through her long blond hair, wearing nothing but short shorts and a hot pink bra, barely containing her tits.
I feel sick.
“Lucifer? I’ve been waiting for—” She stops short as she flicks on the light at the top of the stairs, and her eyes find mine.
I clench my fingers around the railing of the stairs.
Her blue eyes are wide, her lips parted, and I take in the curves of her body, full and round and better than mine.
I see her bare feet, golden skin, her nipples hard beneath the thin fabric of her bra.
Her shorts are more like underwear.
And she came from the direction of my bedroom.
I take a step back, letting go of the bannister.
It was one thing for him to check on Julie with her. To ride in a car with her. But here? At my fucking house?
I’m still in my bare feet, and the cold floor is the only thing I really feel as I take another step backward, toward the door. I need to go.
I have to run.
I’m going to vomit.
I can get in the truck. Maybe Maverick left the keys. I can drive me and J out of here, but I don’t want to stay in this house a second longer. I already didn’t want to. I didn’t want to think about why I left. What happened after Lucifer went with his brothers to Noctem.
I didn’t want to think about the danger our baby is in, even now.
But at this moment, there are more visceral things I don’t want to think about. Like Ophelia fucking my husband. In my house. Our bed.
Her hand is on the bannister at the top as she glares down at me, her expression morphing from surprise to anger, as if she has a right to be angry. As if she fucking has a right to be here at all.
I imagine what it would be like to kill her. Slit her fucking throat and spill her blood down these stairs.
She’s fucking my husband in my house.
Her eyes dart to my throat, and at first, I don’t know why, until she opens her mouth and hisses, “I see you didn’t waste any time.”
Anger and shame both wash over me in an uncomfortable wave, and I want nothing more than to run up these stairs two at a fucking time and bash her head against the wall of my house, but before I can move an inch, the door opens at my back, the security alarm chiming someone’s entrance as it does.
