Page 21 of Ruin Me
Her words hit different, they settle somewhere deep inside, somewhere still raw and tender. Not a single flicker of pity in those eyes, just straight-up belief, and it builds up something inside me that feels like it’s been crumbling for years. Her acceptance wraps around me, a quiet confirmation that maybe I can start to let go of the fury and bitterness that’s been eating at me for so long.
“Your strength, the way you’ve fought through every shitty thing life tossed your way, that’s all you. That resilience? It’s impressive, Quentin. You are amazing.”
Her praise doesn’t feel like charity; it feels earned. And hell, it feels good. My chest swells with something warm, something that feels a lot like hope—or is it pride?—as I grasp Vogue isn’t just someone I can lean on. She’s become part of my foundation, the piece that makes the rest of it all stand a little stronger.
Vogue’s the real deal, someone who’s had to claw her way out of her own set of troubles but never once let them define her. She’s proof that maybe I can do the same.
“How did you end up finding your family?” she asks quietly.
“I heard the assholes who dragged me up talking about it one day about a year ago. How they were ready to send me back in to rip them apart from the inside out. That was their plan, to take me, twist me,brainwash me and send me back to rip them apart. Only they didn’t bank on that being the opposite of what I wanted to do.”
“Fuck,” she breathes and casts her glance to Callum.
He gives her a grim look back but doesn’t back away from the force of her stare.
Right then, even though this was meant to be a tactic to get her on our side, I know I’ve got more than just an ally in this twisted, dangerous world we’re navigating. I’ve got someone who sees the man behind the scars, behind the rage and the pain, and I’ll be damned if I don’t hold onto that as tight as I can.
Silence wraps around us like a thick blanket, dense with the weight of everything we’ve laid bare. She lays her head on my lap, and I feel rooted to the spot, but not in the bad way where I need her to move or I’m going to flip out. I never, ever want her to move.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, breaking the quiet. “For telling me about your past.” Her gaze lifts to meet mine, steady and sure. “You didn’t have to, but it helps me understand what drives you.”
I nod, acknowledging the truth in her words. “I wanted you to know. You’re trying to figure out what to do next, how to deal with the heritage creeping up on you. I get it. It’s about survival, isn’t it? But more than that, you needed to know who is after you.”
She lifts her head, and her lips press into a thin line, eyes darkening with the gravity of decisions thatcould alter the course of her life. She doesn’t need to say anything; I know she’s wrestling with a choice no one should have to make—embrace a legacy steeped in blood or risk falling prey to something even more sinister.
“It feels like I’m at a crossroads with no right turn.”
“Whatever path you choose,” I say, my voice low, “know that we’ll be there.”
The corner of her mouth quirks up, a ghost of a smile, but there’s steel in her eyes—a resolve I’ve come to admire. Vogue is a fighter, through and through.
She links our fingers together, which sears straight through me. It’s a silent acknowledgement of the bond tightening between us, forged in the fires of our shared chaos.
“Quentin,” she breathes out, and the sound of my name on her lips feels like a caress. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but...” She trails off, her hand retreating as if she’s said too much.
“Hey,” I coax gently, capturing her hand before she can pull away entirely, “we’ll handle whatever comes, okay?” The words are simple, a promise stripped of any pretence.
She nods, and for a moment, we’re just two people, connected by a thread of understanding and the unspoken agreement that we’re here for each other, come hell or high water.
As the silence settles over us again, it’s not suffocating—it’s comforting. It’s the knowledge thatdespite the darkness lurking in our corners, we’ve got this ember of connection, fragile yet fierce, threatening to ignite into something neither of us can control.
Vogue leans into me, her head resting on my lap again as Callum rises quietly and joins us, sinking down next to Vogue and placing his hand over ours, and I let myself savour the closeness. Our lives are a tangled mess, but in this slice of stillness, I feel the edges blur, our complicated existence morphing into something that just might be worth fighting for.
For the first time, as I look into the face just like mine, eyes brimming with emotions I didn’t know he had, I give my twin a half smile and forgive him for shit that isn’t even his fault.
It brings me a sense of peace, and for that, I will be eternally grateful to Vogue for giving us this. Am I miraculously fixed? Hell, no. I may never be, but I’m stuck back together with old tape that will hold for now.
13
VOGUE
I’m awake again—thethird time tonight. My eyes snap open, and the ceiling fan’s monotonous hum fills my ears. I roll over, checking the clock. It’s 6 AM. I should be sleeping like the dead, but instead, my brain is in a marathon all about that scholarship funding, of all things.
I sit up and press my palms to my eyes. The darkness behind my eyelids isn’t enough to block out the thoughts. Mum said she applied for me and said it was all taken care of. But something doesn’t add up. There’s a nagging in my gut, a whisper telling me this good fortune is dressed in borrowed clothes.
Glancing around at the empty flat, grateful the twins left me alone some time ago to sort my shit out, I feel a pang for Quentin. What an absolutely awful thing he has been through. Not to mention his family. Callum. The guilt that eats at him is easy to see now, I know. But also, the horror of knowing it could just as easily have been him. There’s so much more to thatstory that I want to know, but I won’t press them. They will tell me when or if they want to.
Knowing sleep will not come, I throw the covers off and swing my legs to the side of the bed. The carpet feels rough under my feet—a contrast to the softness of my sheets. I need answers. Now. Staying here, stewing in my own confusion, won’t solve a thing.
