Page 36 of Ruin

Taken as a teenager, I had never had a crush before, not on a boy at school, not a celebrity, not a neighbour. And then I was taken over and over again, living in filth with people who did nothing but degrade me. Break me.

But this.

Him.

It feels like something else.

Gently, my thumbs stroke the base of his spine, the inch of skin I can reach, I smooth with my touch.

He trembles, goosebumps breaking out across his flesh. The top of my head flush with his lower abs, pressing into the hard muscle, face in the cradle of his thighs. His breathing is sharp, arms limp, backs of his hands against the floor, but he shifts, slow and careful. His hands come to my naked back, and my flesh ripples with goosebumps at his touch.

I sigh quietly, my muscles relaxing as his fingers smooth up and down my spine, his calloused skin rough over the bumps of my scars. I breathe easier, despite the crackle in my wet lungs, and so does he. Our breaths falling into something like synchronicity, I breathe, he breathes, and I cling onto him, a soiled heap in his lap.

His palms splay over my lower back, holding me in place and my lips curve, just a little, at the wave of comfort it brings me.

Chapter17

Kazimir

Smoke drifts from my nostrils as I stare up at the tall office building. The cold air whips it away, a light smattering of rain dusting me as I lean back against the car.

Dima stands silently beside me, hands clasped at his front, his broad shoulder brushing mine as I shift my weight from one leg to the other. He, too, stares up at the thirty-third floor. The only lit level, other than the lobby, for a two-am meeting. One arm crossed over my chest, shoulder still pulsing with a dull ache, I think of seeing him again, here, of all places. At a meeting that is likely to consider lopping off my head.

I blow out a thick cloud of smoke, drop the cigarette to the wet tarmac and use the toe of my shoe to grind it out. Pushing up from the car, I straighten my lapels, shrug my shoulders and make my way inside, Dima at my back, a small team of our security behind him.

Our heavy footsteps echo off the marble floor and walls as we bypass the reception desk, armed men stationed along the walls from all different parties, my men join them as Dima and I continue. Dima reaches past me as we come to the lifts, pressing the call button for the elevator which immediatelydingsin greeting. Doors sliding open, we ride our way up, the electronic floor counter flashing with red numbers as we climb.

“I have your back, Pakhan,” Dima grunts lowly.

Head nodding automatically, I suck in a long breath, straightening my shoulders, and then the doors slide open onto the brightly lit, thirty-third floor.

Noise drifts in our direction, voices. Smoke, the smell of expensive aftershaves, colognes. Sharp liquor, cigars, weed. The wide hallway opens out at the end, the back wall made up of floor to ceiling windows, Southbrook’s skyline glittering in the night beyond the glass.

The long conference table sits in the centre of the room, fifteen chairs on either side, two at the head of the table. That’s where my eyes zero in on.

White hair, gloomy green eyes, the right one sliced through with a jagged, red claw mark, leather jacket pulled over bare tattooed skin.

Charlie’s chin dips, head cocked, his eyes flicked up, he peers at me from beneath those thick pale lashes, straight, jagged cut lengths of hair fall across his brow. I swallow, plastering a smirk on my lips, something I’m usually known for, my cockiness.

I swagger my way into the room, head held high, cheeks lifted with my sly grin. Eyes find mine, some slightly less hostile than others. But none of them, and I mean none of them could flay me alive like those of Her Highness, Ms Kyla-Rose Swallow.

Her grey eyes narrowed sharply. I make my way towards the table. Dima passing me to retrieve us a glass of something that’ll likely scorch my oesophagus on its way down. I slink my way down to her position at the head of the table. Charlie tensing slightly at her side, not a movement anyone else would catch, not unless they were as aware of him as they are themselves. It’s why both Kyla-Rose and I, flick our attention onto him. But he’s not looking at either of us anymore.

Jaw set, knotting at the squared corner, bone flexing as he clenches his teeth, eyes on the view beyond the window. His fingers twist a blade between them, hands below the tabletop, in his lap. He twirls it around and around, eyes narrowing more and more, the longer I stand, my shadow falling across him.

My gaze drifts back to Kyla-Rose, her tongue rolls over her front teeth, sucking on them, she pops a pout. Drapes an elbow onto the table and drops her chin to her curled fist, head canting, she curls her eyes down my body, a sneer pricking her top lip before reconnecting with my eyes.

“Dazzling as ever, Ms Swallow,” I smirk, the corner of my lip pulling higher at her ever-narrowing eyes.

She rolls her large eyes, the corners of her plump red lips pulling downwards in an unimpressed purse.

“Sit down, Ivanov,” she sighs heavily, spitting my name with an eye roll.

“Yes, Your Highness.” I smirk, bowing dramatically, my sarcasm making her face flame with her temper, and flop down into a chair two down from the head of the table on Charlie’s side.

Dima reaches his arm over my right shoulder, placing a crystal tumbler with a clink of ice and clear liquid in it, down in front of me. He takes a couple steps back, standing behind me as everyone else’s guards do.

I light a fresh cigarette, throwing the packet onto the table, and taking a lighter from my jacket pocket, tossing that onto the glass too once I’m finished with it.

---