Page 100 of Ruins
I need to ask her.
Or it will fester.
I push to my feet, stride out of the office, the door slamming shut behind me. The halls of the estate are quiet, dimly lit, the marble floors clicking under each measured step.
Everything is too calm. That unsettling stillness before a storm.
At the library doors, I pause. A hesitation I don’t recognize roots me in place. She doesn’t belong to anyone else. But does she even belong to me?
I exhale, knocking once. “Vasilisa?” My voice is low, softer than I mean for it to be.
A beat of silence.
Then the door cracks open, and she stands before me. Paint smudged on delicate fingers. A messy bun barely holding up golden strands, some slipping loose to frame her face.
She smiles—small, tentative, but so fucking sweet it knocks the breath out of me.
“Santo,” she peeps my name, like it’s something forbidden—something dangerous.
I open my mouth, the question burning on my tongue—but I can’t ask it.
I can’t ruin this.
“I came...” I start, but the words die on my tongue. She watches me, patient, waiting, eyes full of something I can’t name.
I force myself to swallow the truth, pushing past the ache that settles low in my chest.
“I... I came to see your painting.”
A lie. A terrible one.
Surprise flickers across her face before she smooths it over with a soft, amused smile. She doesn’t call me on it. Instead, she steps aside, allowing me in.
She leads me to her canvas, and I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
The blues melt into greens, soft brushstrokes blending so effortlessly it looks almost alive. Dabs of white scatter like distant stars, pulling the whole piece together like a dream you can’t quite hold onto.
I stare, caught in it—in her.
And then, I feel it.
The warmth of her hand slipping into mine.
I look down, startled by the delicate fingers threading through my own, paint-streaked and small, like she’s always meant to fit there.
“Do you like it?” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I can’t answer.
Not when my chest feels too tight. Not when my grip on her instinctively tightens, like I might never let go. Not when I know, in a matter of days, moments, breaths, she’s already more than I can afford her to be.
Not when I understand I will keep her.
No man—not her past, not her future, not even fucking fate—will take her from me.
“Vasilisa...” I murmur, turning to her, and fuck—she’s looking at me like I’m something gentle.
She blinks, waiting. Expectant. Wide-eyed. Sweet.
