Page 61 of Ruined

"That doesn't make what happened right," he says, not looking at me. "You're here because I took you. Because I wouldn't let you go."

I can see it now—he blames himself. For all his dangerous confidence, Noah is wrestling with guilt over what happened between us.

And I hate myself for that.

CHAPTER 18

We eat in silence, the only sounds coming from chopsticks against containers and the occasional sip of water. The confession hangs between us—ten months of watching her without her knowledge. Even to my own ears, it sounds fucked up.

I've killed men without blinking. I've tortured information out of people who crossed the Ferettis. I've done things that would make most people vomit. But this—following a girl around New York, memorizing her schedule, learning her favorite foods—this is what makes me feel like a monster.

She stabs at a piece of kung pao chicken, avoiding my eyes.

If I hadn't been obsessed with her, if I hadn't followed her home that night, if I hadn't been there when Ivan's men attacked—she wouldn't be sitting across from me right now, pissed off but alive.

She knows it too.

Evelyn pushes her food around, then sets her chopsticks down with careful precision. Without a word she stands up and walks away, disappearing into the bedroom.

I don't follow her. What would I say? Sorry I stalked you, but hey, at least you're not being tortured by a Russian psychopath?

I finish my food alone, listening for sounds from the bedroom. Nothing. Not even the violin. The silence is worse than her anger.

I've never given a shit what anyone thought of me before. I've been called every name in the book—murderer, monster, phantom. None of it touched me. But the look in her eyes when she realized I'd been watching her for months—that cut deeper than it should have.

I gather the containers, cleaning up methodically. Maybe she's right to be disgusted. Maybe I am no better than Ivan—just another man trying to control her.

But I'd never hurt her. Not like he would.

I'm gathering the takeout containers when the bedroom door opens. My hands freeze mid-air.

Evelyn stands in the doorway completely naked, holding her violin against her bare hip.

"Fuck," I whisper, the word escaping before I can catch it.

My breathing catches in my throat as I take her in. The soft curve of her breasts, small and perfect. The dip of her waist flaring to rounded hips. Long legs that I already know the feel of wrapped around me. Her skin glows under the apartment lights, like polished marble but warm, alive.

She doesn't speak. Doesn't smile. Just walks toward me with deliberate steps, her eyes never leaving mine. The violin dangles from her fingertips, swinging slightly with each step.

I drop the containers back onto the counter, not caring when one spills over.

"What are you doing?" My voice comes out rough, strained.

She doesn't answer. Instead she stops in the middle of the living room, positions the violin under her chin and raises the bow.

The first note slides through the air between us, dark and sensual. I don't recognize the piece—something classical that builds slowly, the notes climbing higher then diving low again.

She keeps her eyes locked on mine as she plays, her body swaying slightly with the music. Her breasts rise and fall with each breath, her fingers leaping across the strings with impossible precision.

My cock hardens instantly, straining against my pants. I grip the edge of the counter behind me, my knuckles turning white.

She knows exactly what she's doing. This isn't just music—it's a fucking seduction. Every stroke of her bow, every slight movement of her naked body is calculated to drive me insane.

And it's working.

I can't look away from her. Can't move. Can't think beyond the desperate need to touch her. The melody wraps around me, pulling me to her like a physical force.

One step, then another. I move toward her like a man possessed, my body responding to commands I haven't given.

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