Page 40 of Ruins
I lean back in my chair, the faint trace of her perfume lingering long after she’s gone.Vasilisa. Though she’s as delicate as I imagined, she’s also somehow… strong. Strong enough to walk into my office without hesitation. To smile, despite the weight of what this life means for her.
I thought my biggest fear would be wanting her. But now, that’s not what grips me. No, the real fear coils deep inside me—what happens when she meets Scythe?
She’ll fear him.
I tell myself she should. Maybe it would be easier that way. Maybe it would stop whatever this is inside me from turning into something I can’t control.
I scoff at the idea, but in that moment, in this room with her and her intoxicating scent of sweet cashmere—a warm, amber softness that wraps around me like a forbidden caress filling my senses, all I wanted was to give her exactly what she needed and everything that she desired.
That’s dangerous for a man like me, wanting her. It would be one thing to just want her body, consummate the marriage and play our roles, but Vasilisa managed, in amoment, what other women could never achieve in weeks. She stirred in me a desire, an equal longing.
I hate it.
Why isn’t this simple?
Physical. Monetary. No, this… this feels like something else. Something harder to walk away from.
Vasilisa isn’t supposed to matter.
I drag a finger along the edge of the glass desk, stopping at the rough curve of the initials I carved. I shouldn’t have done it.
I don’t do things like that.
Before I can dwell further, the phone on my desk buzzes and Sandra informs me I have a visitor.
The wedding planner.
A woman steps in hesitantly, clutching a tablet, her shoulders stiff like she’s preparing for war. She lingers near the entrance, nerves practically radiating off her.
I glance up, barely masking my irritation.
“Mr. Amato,” she starts, shifting the tablet nervously in her hands. “I just have a few questions regarding the wedding.”
I sigh quietly, leaning back in the chair.
“Make it quick.”
She nods, pressing the tablet closer to her chest. “Do you know if your bride has a preference for flowers or food?”
“Julian can deal with the food,” I reply, brushing it off. “Talk to him. He knows what I like.”
Her stylus glides across the screen, but she pauses again. “And the flowers?”
“Lilies,” I say without hesitation. “And roses.”
I glance up to find her staring at me, waiting for more.
“Small ones,” I add, watching as confusion flickers across her face.
“For the tables?”
“No.” I drum my fingers against the glass. “For her hair.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Real roses?”
I let the silence stretch just long enough for her to realize it wasn’t a suggestion.
“Why would I ask for fake ones?” I reply flatly.
