Page 43 of Ruined By Blood
The silence that follows is absolute. Even the birds seem to have gone quiet. I can hear Enzo's measured breathing, too controlled to be natural. Can feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a flame.
I risk a glance at his face and immediately wish I hadn't. His expression is carved from stone, but his eyes burn with something that makes me shiver.
I've given him one small piece of my story, and already I feel flayed open, vulnerable in ways that terrify me.
The words stick in my throat as I try to explain what happened. My hands shake, wrapping around the coffee mug like it's an anchor keeping me from drifting away completely.
"After that first cigarette burn," I whisper, "there was a man. One of my father's associates."
Enzo sits unnaturally still across from me, like a predator waiting. His eyes never leave my face.
"He said I was..." I swallow hard, tasting bile. "Beautiful. That he wanted to see more of me."
The cabin feels too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I focus on the wood grain of the coffee table, tracing the lines with my eyes.
"He started with my skin. Said he wanted to mark me." My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. "Little burns at first. Then cuts. He liked to watch me trynot to cry."
Enzo's knuckles turn white around his coffee mug. I can feel the rage radiating from him in waves, but he doesn't interrupt, doesn't move.
"Before he..." I can't say the word, can't push it past my lips. "Before he took what he wanted."
My breath comes faster now, shallow and quick. The room tilts slightly, memories threatening to drag me under. I set down my mug before I drop it, coffee sloshing over the rim.
"I was fourteen," I manage, heart hammering against my ribs. "I didn't understand what was happening. Not really."
There's more—so much more. The other men who came after. The years of being trotted out like a prize horse. The words my father used when he explained my purpose to me. But the memories swarm like angry hornets, stinging and overwhelming until I can barely breathe.
"I'm sorry." I press my hands against my eyes. "I can't. I need some time."
"Sienna." Enzo's voice is gentle in a way I didn't know he could be. "Look at me."
I force myself to meet his gaze, expecting pity or disgust. Instead, I find something that looks almost like understanding.
"This isn't easy," I say. "Talking about it makes it real again."
"You don't have to tell me everything now." His voice is low, controlled, but I can hear the anger simmering beneath his calm. "But I need to knowwhoto kill."
The bluntness of his statement should frighten me. Instead, it steadies me somehow.
"One day," I promise. "I will tell you everything. Just... not today."
Enzo leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Your father was there? When this man hurt you?"
My silence is answer enough.
"He knew." It's not a question. Enzo's jaw tightens. "Henry Sterling knew what was happening to his daughter and did nothing."
I stare down at my hands, unable to speak the truth: that my father didn't just know.
But I can't form the words. Not yet.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything I'm not saying. I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into the borrowed sweater as if I could somehow hold myself together through sheer force of will.
"When you're ready," Enzo finally says, his voice a quiet promise in the stillness of the cabin, "I'll listen."
And somehow, I believe him.
CHAPTER 17
