Page 74 of Ruins
But he is.
I lift my gaze, and the intensity in his nearly steals the breath from my lungs.
The world around us blurs, the grand ballroom softening into nothing but movement and warmth. His steps are smooth, surprisingly graceful for someone so imposing.
We move as one, the space between us narrowing with every turn, every breath. The faint brush of his jacket against the bodice of my dress sets my skin alight.
And then—his fingertips press into the small of my back.
Not enough to draw attention.
But enough that I notice.
Enough that I burn beneath his touch.
“Better?” he murmurs, his lips just beside my ear.
I nod, but words feel distant. Fragile. As if speaking might shatter whatever delicate thing lingers between us.
His thumb strokes a slow, absent pattern along my waist. A touch that feels less like reassurance and more like possession. I wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it. Or if it’s instinct.
By the time the music fades, I’m almost disappointed.
Applause ripples through the ballroom, pulling me back to the present.
Santo leads me back toward our table, his hand slipping from mine too soon. But the warmth of it remains, ghosting over my skin.
I hesitate, then reach beneath the table, slipping my fingers through his—just to hold onto the moment for a little longer.
For a while, everything feels… easier.
I sip champagne, let the murmured congratulations wash over me, and lean into the quiet comfort of Santo’s presence beside me. It’s not perfect. But it’s something.
Then Maksim appears, his hair an unmistakable flash of teal as he strides toward us with a crooked grin.
“I’m borrowing him,” Maksim says by way of greeting, already tugging Santo to his feet. “Don’t worry, Kisa, I’ll bring him back in one piece.”
There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, but the weight of his title is heavy beneath the humor. The Pakhan doesn’t really ask.
Santo exhales quietly but doesn’t resist.
I smile politely—because what else can I do?
Still, as he walks away, he glances back.
For just a moment, our eyes meet across the room.
And something passes between us—something unspoken, something I can’t quite name.
My gaze drifts through the ballroom, catching on my cousins—Maksim’s siblings, Katya and Kostya.
Katya is wildly beautiful, her white-blonde hair cut into a sleek bob, a form-fitting dress hugging her figure perfectly. She sits with effortless poise, long legs crossed, engaged in quiet conversation with her brother.
Kostya is her contrast in every way—where she is polished, he is careless. His crumpled button-down and leather jacket make him look more suited for a bar than a wedding. Yet, despite the heinous choice of attire, his face remains striking, deceptively soft against the hard edges of his demeanor.
I’m still studying them when a shadow overtakes my table.
Tall. Commanding.
