Page 62 of The Road to Ruined

I hold my breath as he moves closer, afraid he'll hear me.

"Teagan?" he says from directly above me. "You don't look dead or unconscious."

"I wish I was. Does that count?"

"No."

"Well, go ahead and kill me then."

He sighs before bending down and picking me up. Holding me tightly against his chest, he trudges back up the rocky terrain toward the road, then into the garage, up the staircase, and back into the house. And I let him, silently surrendering. I don't have anything left to fight for anymore.

He sets me down in a chair in the kitchen. "My god, Teagan." He takes my chin in his hand, turning my face to inspect my newest injuries. "You look like you got hit by a truck. Does it feel like anything is broken?"

"I've had worse."

"Come on," he says, extending a hand to me. "I'll help you into the shower."

My lip curls in disgust. "No," I say, knocking it away. "I don't need your help, and I'm not taking another fucking shower. Stop fucking acting like you care about me."

"Teagan—"

"No! I know what you are and what you're doing—I'm not stupid. You're the old man who raised you in isolation, throwing scraps of affection at a dejected, mangled sad-ass excuse for a human being and hoping it'll be enough to get me to agree to whatever you want. You know, you really arejustlike him. And I don't care if you kill me for saying it—it's true. You're Declan De Rossi in a shittier fucking outfit."

I shove him hard before storming off to the bedroom, but he barely stumbles backward. And when I slam the door behind me, it bounces off his arm and flies open again.

"God damn it! What do I need to do to get you to leave me alone?"

He grabs me by the arm and backs me into the wall. "Itwasa compliment," he says. "I meant it as a compliment. I wish I could kill you because you're all I think about, and it drives me fucking insane. You asked me if I thought you were beautiful…I think you're flawless. Youarepoetry—your body, your eyes…your battered soul, and your rage. You're the perfect monster, Teagan—"

"I'm not a monster!You are,and I don't want you."

"Why not?!" he shouts, tightening his grip on my shoulders.

"Stop. Fucking. Hurting me!"

I slash at him with my knife, but with my restricted range of motion, I barely get a small slice of his abdomen.

"Fuck!"

I brace myself for retribution, but instead, he takes a step back and lifts his shirt. I watch blood run down his abdomen from a thin cut about three inches in length, just under where his sternum ends.

He removes his gloves and then, with one strong, tanned hand, grips my wrist, pulling my arm toward him and turning it over. With the other, he runs a finger through the blood. I watch him write the wordsI'M SORRYacross my forearm again.

"I'm sorry, Teagan," he says as he releases my wrist, his tone soft. "You can hurt me again if you want—if it'll make you feel better—I won't hurt you." He takes a hand and smoothes my hair away from my dirty, tear-streaked cheeks. "You said you wanted to taste my blood…" He runs his fingers through the blood dripping down his abs again and then brings them to my lips. "Stick out your tongue."

I do as he asks and open for him, and he places those bloody fingers on my tongue. I close my lips around them and suck.

"Itwasa compliment." He cups my cheeks in his hands. "How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being?"

"I've heard that before…" I whisper, searching the libraries of my mind. Was it Declan? No…I'vereadthat before.

"Have you?" he asks.

Where have I read that?

"A bad woman is the sort of woman a man never gets tired of," I quote. "It's Oscar Wilde."

"You surprise me."

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