Page 157 of Boy of Ruin
She gags, the moans that were coming from her mouth—faint, because the sliding glass door is closed—dying off.
His head is tilted back, the long, pale column of his throat exposed. I see the Unsaints tattoo on his thigh. The scars down the middle of it.
So many.
So many that aren’t mine.
I think I must be in shock, because for a long, long moment, I just hold up my hand and stare at it even though I can’t see it in the dark. But I know it’s there.
Coagula.
I curl my fingers into a fist, think of when he carved that knife across me. When he put my blood in his mouth.
Left Jeremiah to burn in that building at our back.
The hole in my heart gets bigger. I drop my hand to my low belly and watch them, wondering if she’s on birth control, because my husband probably doesn’t know what the fuck a condom is, despite what he said.
Like seeing a car wreck, I can’t look away, numbness flowing through me, and I take a step further into the room. I see the bed is made, and I don’t know why I feel some small amount of relief at the fact that he didn’t fuck her in there.
The same place he held me down. Promised to never leave me.
I step closer to the balcony door, and I can see my own shadow reflected from the light outside. I look small, like a kid.
Ophelia, with her curvy hips, big tits, and the meat on her thighs that Lucifer grabs now, still holding that bikini top tight around her throat—her face is red and she’s tugging at it, trying to pull it off—looks like a woman.
I take another step, bile rising up the back of my throat.
But I’m pregnant with his fucking child.
Another step.
With a trembling hand, I reach for the door and I think for a split second of locking it. Locking them out of on this balcony to look out at the woods beyond Liber all night until someone checks on them, and I assume that’d be a fucking while.
But I can’t do it.
I don’t want to.
I don’t want him out here with her.
Instead, I pull open the door. I feel as if I’m walking underwater, everything in slow motion. I can’t think, and I can’t feel.
For a moment after I open that door, nothing happens. Or rather, Lucifer just keeps fucking her, biting his bottom lip, his eyes closed.
Ophelia is still clawing at the bikini string, and my husband is totally oblivious to the fact that she might pass out if he doesn’t let go.
A warm spring breeze fans over me as I stand there, in the doorway, neither of them noticing me.
Lucifer groans, finally bowing his head, and just as he does, the vodka bottle topples off of the table and shatters on the concrete floor of the balcony.
Neither of them seem to react, but I flinch, wrapping my arms around myself, my mouth so dry, I don’t think I could speak even if I knew what to say.
And I don’t.
Lucifer releases the string of the bikini, his hand going to her breast as he grabs her, hard enough to leave a bruise, that groan guttural and from his core. She’s panting, her breaths loud and nervous, chest rising and falling.
I see Lucifer’s fingers digging into her flesh, her nipple peeking beneath his splayed fingers.
And I think they still don’t see me.
