Page 299 of Ruin Me Gently

“What about when you lose yourself entirely? If he dies, Silas—” I swallowed hard, my voice thin and frayed “—it doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t make any of it go away. It just means we’d have his blood on our hands. He wouldn’tleaveus.”

He shook his head like I was speaking in riddles. LikeIwas the one who didn’t understand what was going on. “You’re scared of ghosts now, Lilith?”

“Yes, Silas,” I shot back, my voice breaking. “Yes. I fucking am.”

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT

Thirteen Years Ago

Ikept my eyeson the page, pretending I couldn’t hearit.

Earbuds in. Nirvana cranked loud enough to rattle my skull.

It didn’t help much. It never did.

The words on the page blurred as I tried to focus. Something about a brooding guy with abs and a tragic past, probably named Jaxon or Zane or some other stupid name that sounded like he owned a leather jacket and couldn’t emotionally commit.

I didn’t know why I kept reading this crap. Maybe because romance books were predictable. Safe. No matter how much heartbreak the heroine suffered, you knew she’d get her happily ever after by page four hundred. Meanwhile, in the real world, love was just another way to get your ribs kicked in.

The thumping noise spiked again. Not quite footsteps. Not quite a door slamming. Just… thudding.

I ignored it.

I’d gotten good at tuning it all out over the years—the fights, the bitter silences, the jagged pauses that felt worse than the yelling. I told myself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t my problem. That if I just turned the music up loud enough, none of it would stick.

The thumping flared louder, and I jabbed the volume button, letting the music scream in my ears.

Come as you are… as you were…

I let my eyes skim the page again, reading without really seeing the words. Just holding the book to do something—to keep my hands from curling into fists, to keep my mind from circling back to last night.

He clocks me the second I step into the kitchen.

“Where you been?” Wayne slurs.

He’s drunk. Again.

“Upstairs,” I mutter, grabbing a glass from the cupboard. I keep my eyes down, hoping that if I don’t engage, he’ll get bored.

He never gets bored.

“You think I’m stupid?” His voice sharpens. “Think I don’t know what you’re up to?”

I freeze, glass halfway to the sink. “I’m not up to anything.”

“Bullshit.” His boots scuff against the floor as he steps closer. “I saw what you did.”

I frown, still gripping the empty glass. “What?”

His hand shoots out—fast and hard—and grabs my wrist.

“Hey!” I snap, twisting my arm, but his fingers dig in like a vice.

I barely have time to react before he yanks my arm forward and shoves my sleeve up to my elbow.

And there it is. The mess of red lines crisscrossing my skin. Some still raw, angry, and raised. Others barely there anymore, fading into thin, silvery lines.

Never deep enough to scar. Just enough to sting—enough to jolt my body back into something I could control.

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