Page 196 of Ruins
“Santo...” she whispers, her voice hesitant.
I shake my head, wrapping a towel around my waist.
“Another time,” I murmur. “We have the whole month.”
She watches me with those gorgeous eyes as I towel dry her hair, as I tuck her into bed, as I pull on sweats and slip in beside her.
And when I wrap my arms around her, when I breathe her in, I know—
I willneverdeserve this… to bask in her light.
But I will spend my life worshipping her anyway.
Chapter 38
Vasilisa
Iwakeuptoanempty bed, the sheets cool where Santo once lay. My fingers tangle in the fabric, his scent still clinging to it. A smile tugs at my lips as I roll onto my side, letting the remnants of his scent sink into me. The room is bathed in a soft, golden hue, the early morning light slipping through the cracks in the curtains.
With a content sigh, I push myself up, stretching as the memories of last night flutter through my mind. A blush warms my cheeks. The tenderness in his touch, the way he held me afterward, like I was something fragile and precious. Like hewantedto keep me.
His emotion was palpable; it filled me up in ways I never thought possible.
A distant clatter pulls me from my thoughts, grounding me back in reality. I wrap my robe tightly around me and pad barefoot across the cool floor, following the sound into the kitchen.
And there he is.
Santo stands at the stove, his broad, bare back facing me, muscles shifting with each precise movement. The soft morning glow glances off his skin, tracing the tattoo etched along his skin, highlighting the ridges of his shoulders. My mouth goes dry.
“Good morning,” he says without turning, his voice low and husky. It’s the kind of voice that lingers, that curls around my spine like silk.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice softer than I intend. I lower my gaze, cheeks warm, before stealing another glance at him. I take a seat at the breakfast bar, watching as he plates up scrambled eggs and bacon with the same careful precision he applies to everything in his life.
“If you don’t like it, I can make you something else,” he says, setting the plates down before moving to pour fresh juice.
I take a bite, humming in delight at the perfectly cooked eggs. “It’s delicious.”
His full smile breaks across his face then—rare, breathtaking. It stutters my heart, knocks the breath right out of me. His eyes soften when they meet mine, and there’s something unspoken there, something warm and steady. A promise. A quiet offering of moments like this, of mornings spent together, of tenderness and care in the spaces between the chaos.
Breakfast passes in easy silence, the kind that speaks of familiarity, of something deeper settling between us. After we finish, Santo collects our plates and sets them in the sink, but instead of stepping away, he turns back to me, bracing his forearms against the counter.
“Vasilisa,” he begins, his voice measured, his gaze serious. “Last night—”
Panic flutters in my chest. I don’t want to havethatconversation. I don’t want to hear him say it was a mistake, that it was obligation, rather than desire.
So I do the only thing I can think of—I beam at him, eyes wide with mischief. “I want to show you something!”
His gaze sharpens with suspicion. “Show me what?”
“It’s in the library,” I announce brightly, already hopping off my stool and making my escape toward the stairs. But Santo moves faster.
In one smooth motion, his arm sweeps around me, lifting me off the ground. A surprised squeak leaves my lips as I find myself cradled against his chest.
“We can take the elevator,” he utters, turning toward the pantry.
I pout playfully. “I can walk, you know.”
He smirks. “Yeah. But you don’t have to.”
