Page 45 of Ruined

Noah reaches out, his fingertips barely grazing my cheek. I should flinch away, but I don't. His light touch sends electricity through me.

"You're going to hate yourself for this," he says quietly. "For not hating me enough."

He's right. I already do.

"Noah," I whisper, not sure if I'm asking him to stop or begging him not to.

He answers by closing the distance between us. His lips find mine and everything else disappears.

The kiss is gentle at first, almost hesitant—so different from the violence that I know lives in him. Then something breaks. His hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me closer as the kiss deepens.

I should push him away. I should scream. I should remember who he is and what he's done.

Instead, I melt.

My violin slips from my fingers, landing with a soft thud on the rug. My hands find his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath his shirt. He tastes like coffee and something darker, something dangerous.

The world tilts beneath my feet. I'm falling, drowning, losing myself in him. And God help me, I want more.

I press closer, my body acting on its own, seeking his heat. Noah groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. His hands tighten, one at my waist, one tangled in my hair.

"Evelyn," he breathes my name against my lips like a prayer.

It tears something loose inside me. I've spent my whole life controlled by others—my father, Ivan, and now Noah. But this—this desire burning through me—feels like my choice. The first real choice I've made in so long.

I want him. All of him. The monster and the man. The killer and the boy who lost his mother.

My hands slide down his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palm. He's as affected as I am, as lost in this impossible moment.

When we break apart to haul at a breath, reality crashes back. What am I doing? This man kidnapped me. He's holding me prisoner. He's killed people.

But I can't make myself care. Not now, with his forehead pressed against mine, his breath hot on my face, his hands holding me like I might shatter.

"I shouldn't want this," I say, my voice breaking.

Noah's eyes meet mine, dark and hungry. "Neither should I."

But we both do. It hangs between us, this terrible, beautiful truth.

"I need to..." She doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to. She turns and walks to the bedroom, each step deliberate. The door closes behind her with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the silence she leaves behind.

Fuck.

I run my hand through my hair, pacing the living room like a caged animal. What the fuck was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. That's the problem. For the first time in years I let something other than cold calculation drive my actions.

The ghost of her lips still burns on mine. I can still taste her—vanilla and something deeper, something that makes me want to kick down that bedroom door and finish what we started.

But I won't. Because I know what happens next. I've seen this story play out before. People get close to me, they get hurt. Or worse.

I grab a glass and pour myself two fingers of whiskey, downing it in one burning swallow. It doesn't help.

I pour another drink, remembering the way her body fit against mine, the small sound she made when our lips met. The way her fingers curled into my shirt like she was afraid to let go.

The violin sits abandoned on the ground where she left it. Her most prized possession, forgotten in a moment of weakness. Just like I forgot everything I know about survival the instant I tasted her lips.

I should never have let this happen. Should never have let her play that music. Should never have told her about my mother. Should never have shown her that crack in my armor.

Because now she knows. She's seen something real in me, and that gives her power I can't afford to give anyone.

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