Page 100 of Ruined By Blood
"Mrs. Sterling, I'm Dr. Romano," he introduces himself with professional warmth. "I'd like to examine you, if that's alright. After years of sedation, we need to ensure you're physically stable."
I stand, giving Charlotte a reassuring nod. "I'll leave you with the doctor. He'll determine if you need anything special before tomorrow."
I head down the hall, my footsteps echoing against marble floors. My mind's a battlefield of strategies and contingencies for tomorrow's exchange, but beneath it all runs a current of something else—something I'm not ready to name.
I need space to breathe. To think.
My feet carry me toward Lucrezia's art room without conscious decision. The door stands ajar, soft morning light spilling into the hallway. I pause at the threshold, watching my sister work.
Lucrezia stands before a canvas, paintbrush in hand, her dark hair pulled back in a messy knot. A sight I haven't seen in months, unless the other day she was in here with Sienna. Her face holds an intensity I've missed, the furrowbetween her brows that appears when she's translating something from her mind to canvas.
"You gonna stand there all day?" she asks without turning.
I step inside, the familiar scent of oils and turpentine wrapping around me. "Good to see you painting again."
Her brush doesn't falter. "Feels strange. Like putting on clothes that don't fit anymore." She adds a streak of crimson to the canvas. "How's Charlotte?"
"Stronger than she looks." I move beside her, studying the painting—a storm of dark colors with hints of light breaking through. "The doctor's with her now."
Lucrezia sets down her brush, turning to face me. "And how are you?"
"Fine."
"Liar." She wipes her hands on a cloth. "You look like you're coming apart at the seams."
I sigh, lowering myself onto the worn leather couch against the wall. "I'll be better when Sienna's back."
Lucrezia studies me with those perceptive eyes that see too much. "It's more than that," she says, pulling up a stool to sit across from me. "I know what you look like when you're worried about business. This is different."
I say nothing, but she waits me out, the way she's done since we were kids.
"What is it about her?" Lucrezia finally asks. "You've known her, what—a week?"
"A lifetime's worth of moments crammed into days," I reply, surprising myself with the truth of it.
Lucrezia tilts her head. "Is it love?" The question hangs in the air, direct and unflinching. "How do you even know when it's love?"
I run a hand over my face, buying time. But the answer comes easier than I expected.
"Love isn't what they sell in movies," I tell her. "It's not butterflies or poetry or any of that shit. It's seeing someone exactly as they are—all their darkness, all their damage—and choosing them anyway." I lean forward, the words coming from somewhere I didn't know existed inside me. "It's when their pain becomes your pain. When you'd tear your own heart out if it would heal theirs."
Lucrezia watches me silently, something vulnerable crossing her face.
"With Sienna," I continue, "it's like finding a piece of myself I didn't know was missing. She's been through hell, but she still has this light in her. This strength." I shake my head. "Time doesn't factor into it. Some people, you just recognize. Like your soul's been waiting for them."
"I've never felt that," Lucrezia whispers. "Not once."
"You will," I tell her. "When you're ready. When the right person deserves you."
She looks down at her paint-stained hands. "After what happened... I don't know if I can ever let someone that close."
I reach across, taking her hand in mine. "That's the thing about love, Luce. Real love. It doesn't demand you be whole first. It meets you in your brokenness and says 'I'll carry what you can't.'"
A tear slides down her cheek. "When did my brother become a philosopher?"
I smile slightly. "When a woman with blue eyes and too many scars crashed into my life and refused to leave my thoughts."
Lucrezia wipes away her tear and straightens her posture. "You need to rest before tomorrow," she says, hervoice shifting to that no-nonsense tone she inherited from our mother. "When's the last time you slept?"
