Page 133 of Boy of Ruin
Then he spins her around, his hands on her upper arms.
I dart a glance at her ass, small but round in those black shorts, and I think about how good it would feel to hate fuck her, but I don’t want to give her the fucking satisfaction. And besides that? After he’s been inside of her?
I don’t fucking want her.
“Let’s go,” Mav says, and he wraps his tattooed arm around her shoulder, glaring at me as he reaches for the door.
“I don’t fucking think—” I start to say.
“Yeah, that’s your problem,” he snarls at me, still holding my gaze as he pulls the door open and a chime rings out in the house.
I want to smash that goddamn alarm and everyone in here’s bones.
I clench my hands into fists and open my mouth to retort, but Mav’s eyes dart past me, up at Ophelia, still silent at my back.
“Get her out of this house or I’ll get her out in fucking pieces,” he snarls.
“You know they might come after her too,” I say in a rush, not referring to O. I know he’s going to leave, I know I can’t stop him, and I kind of don’t want to.
But still. The thought of her, in someone else’s arms again…it hurts.
Mav doesn’t say anything in response to my warning. Instead, he pushes Sid through the door and slams it closed.
“Lucifer—”
I spin around, cutting off whatever the fuck Ophelia was going to say to me as I stare up at her.
I should send her home. My wife obviously fucked Jeremiah, and that thought is like a punch to the gut. It makes me want to hurl.
I feel like the room is fucking spinning.
But I did the same thing to her.
Even still, knowing that she let him touch her like I touched her? If it had been anyone else, if she’d fucked his guard, or fucking London goddamn Hamilton or anyone at all…
Fuck.
“Go to my room,” I tell O, raking a hand through my hair, thinking about the coke I’ve got in my dresser. “I’ll be there soon.”
She wraps her arms around her chest, rocks back and forth on the step. I imagine her slipping and falling. Breaking her fucking neck, and I imagine the satisfaction I might feel if it happened.
She’s been a good friend, one of my earliest. But I don’t want her. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone but my wife, but she’s only ever wanted her fucking brother, and right now she’s off with her real brother, whom she. Also. Fucked.
“Why don’t you—”
I don’t let O finish that question. A guttural roar leaves my mouth as I turn from her, slamming my fist into the wall hard enough to leave a fucking dent and crack my goddamn knuckles.
It feels good.
Without the blow, I can feel how it hurts. I shake my hand out, flexing my fingers.
Then I curl them into a fist and hit the wall again, breaking through the drywall.
I have a feeling I’ll be doing a lot of that before this is all over.
The sound of someone calling my name wakes me. My mouth is dry, and I taste iron in the back of my throat. My eyes feel heavy, and it takes an effort to blink them open. When I do, I’m not quite sure what I’m looking at.
Ink on skin.
