Page 57 of Ruin

The English Prince.

Nothing but stolen moments and lustful hatred. Dirty, degrading blowjobs and fucked up dangerous sex. Bloody tongues and venomous words.

Toxic.

Broken.

Ruin.

I am his. He is mine.

I inhale deep, lean forward and press the call button for the house. The loud buzzing pierces the icy air as it rings, rings, rings. Finally, I light my cigarette, staring up at the dark house, eye my own reflection in the shined black hood of my car as I glance down.

He’s not going to answer.

I know it.

I wouldn’t.

Toe of my shoe kicking through the dusty gravel, the buzzing of the call box thick in my head. I think about just leaving, when it suddenly stops. Silence hangs heavy on the other end, but it’s been answered. I know it’s him without even hearing him breathe. My own catching in my chest, I wait, exhaling a heavy breath of smoke, I lick my lips.

“Malysh,” I breathe, leaning closer to the box, licking my lips again, I swallow dryly. “Let me in.”

The silence that comes after my pleading is suffocating, but he doesn’t hang up. I drop my cigarette to the gravel, swivel my foot over the top of it, grinding it out. I inhale, and then blow it out.

“Please,” I swallow again, palms sweating. “I need to see you.”

“Fuck off, Kazimir,” he grumbles through the crackle of the speaker.

Glancing over my shoulder at the liquor on my passenger seat, I turn back to face the call box, “I bring booze.” He is so silent, I fear he’s cut the connection, but the call box crackles again, and I know he’s still there. “You got any weed?”

He grunts, “What do you want?”

“To smoke, to drink,” I answer quickly, desperately, but I can’t find it in me to care. “Just to…” I flick my gaze around, seeing a dark figure patrolling the grounds.

“To what, Kazimir?” he blows out a breath, words low, and I imagine him shifting on his feet, glaring at the wall panel he’s speaking through like he wishes he could set it on fire, maybe blow it up.

“Talk,” I whisper. “To talk,” I answer again, a little louder. “I’ll… Nothing heavy, just, I don’t know,” I confess, brows pulling together. “I don’t fucking know.” I throw a hand to my head, card my fingers through my hair. “You know what, don’t worry about it,” I push up from the car, glancing down at my feet, I shake my head, blowing out a breath. “I dunno what I’m doing,” I fist my hair, biting on my upper lip.

The call box goes dead. A frustrated scream trapped behind my teeth. I force out a breath, bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood and then turn back to the car. Tearing the door open, I throw myself into the seat, palms of my hands smacking against the steering wheel. I grip it tight, the leather creaking beneath my clenched fingers. Forehead dropping to the top of the wheel, I breathe in deep, eyes shut tight.

I don’t know why the fuck I’ve come here.

I knock my head gently into the wheel, groaning at the pounding in the back of my head, I got blown up and didn’t die, but it’s all I can fucking think about.

And I just want to see him.

I have a desperate desire to.

Even if it’s just for him to tell me to fuck off.

Hands dropping to my lap, I stare down at them. Tattoos swirled up the lengths of each finger, spun lines of filigree-type patterns wrapping around each digit. I shove up the ring on my middle finger, wriggling it up to the knuckle so I can see it. A tiny‘C’tattooed on the inside of my finger, re-inked more times than I dare count, hidden beneath the band of my Ivanov family ring.

I wonder why I had it done. Perhaps it was just to torture myself. Perhaps it was a fuck you to my father. Maybe I just really fucking hate myself.

Reaching down for the car keys, fingertips brushing the wiry floor mat, I scoop them up, put the key in the ignition, start the engine, foot on the clutch, I knock the gear stick into reverse. Glancing at the house beyond the gates once more, I shake my head.

It was fucking stupid to come here.

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