Page 220 of Boy of Ruin
Feel him.
Hear his beautiful laugh.
Lucifer promised me he didn’t know where he was. I called Nicolas. I called him. I just wanted…another goodbye.
But I think he knows what I’ve come to learn about goodbyes.
No matter how many times you say it, the end result is the same. Someone still leaves, and it still hurts like hell.
Another clumsy word on the tip of our tongues can’t save us from that kind of pain.
I glance down at the ring on my finger. A black diamond in the shape of a rose, a black band, too. Despite the hole in my heart that Jeremiah left behind, I smile at that ring.
At the one I see on Lucifer’s ring finger, too. A matte black band carved with a skull.
My husband.
The words feel good now when I think them. Think of how I’m here with him. He’s coming down from all the fucking coke, and I know it’s hard. It’s why he’s sleeping. Why I’ve tried—and failed—to cook so many meals and ended up throwing in the metaphorical fucking dishtowel and letting Ella handle it all.
I rest my chin on my knees, staring at Lucifer stirring in our bed of black satin sheets, gray pillows.
He’s so fucking beautiful it sometimes hurts to look at him.
But other times, I can’t look away, like now.
He rubs his fists over his eyes, slowly sits up, and he’s looking around in a daze, like he’s searching for something.
For me.
I clear my throat softly, and he whips his head in my direction.
When our eyes connect, a smile pulls at the corners of his beautiful mouth. His top lip is bigger than his bottom one and it looks so fucking adorable, it takes an effort for me to stay right where I’m at on this black leather couch.
“You should’ve woken me up,” he says, his voice thick with sleep. “I thought you wanted to run this morning.”
I smile at him, picking my head up as he leans back against the headboard, running his hand through his curls. He drops it by his side, and I take in his abs, his chest, his perfect pale skin.
“I do,” I tell him. “But you said you were taking the week off.”
He tips his head back and laughs at that, raspy and throaty as he stares at the ceiling.
Reminding me of Jeremiah. His brother.
“Baby girl. I’m not going back to work for a long, long time,” he finally says, dipping his chin and holding my gaze.
His eyes are so startling, contrasted with his pale skin, his black curls, they take my breath away.
“You’re my priority. And the baby, too.” His voice softens with those words, as he dips his gaze lower, to the loose white tank I’m wearing, nothing else but underwear. “Speaking of, come sit with me, mama.”
That word sends warmth coursing through me, and after a minute of him staring at me in expectation, I get to my feet and cross the room. Before I can crawl onto the bed, he’s leaned up, grabbed me by the waist, and hauled me against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around me as he leans against the headboard, kissing my cheek and squeezing me close.
Then his hand slips under my tank, resting against Jeremiah’s initial.
I tense in his arms, not breathing.
He laughs against my ear, his breath on my skin. But it isn’t a pleasant laugh. There’s nothing warm in that raspy rumble.
And when he flips me over, coming on top of me as my breath leaves me in a rush, I’m not at all surprised at the fury in his gaze as his finger digs into the healing wound as he yanks my shirt up.
