Page 77 of Ruins
“You can always visit them,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. Then, more solemnly, “And you will make new memories in our home.”
His words are meant to be a comfort. And they are.
But the unknown still looms large and daunting before me.
As we pull up to the grand estate, my heart thrums wildly against my ribcage.
The mansion gleams brightly under the moonlight and for a moment it takes my breath away. This is my home now.
The thought claws at my chest.
“We’re here,” Santo announces, stepping out first before offering me his hand.
I take it, letting him help me from the car. The cool night air rushes over my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat curling in my stomach.
He leads me up the stairs towards the grand entrance and with every step, it sinks in deeper that this is my reality now.
Inside, servants greet us with warm smiles and murmured welcomes, their kindness at odds with the storm of nerves twisting inside me. I respond where I can, polite and composed, but my mind feels elsewhere—spinning, grasping, trying to anchor itself.
Santo’s voice pulls me back.
“I’ll introduce you to everyone formally tomorrow,” he reassures me as we approach a set of ornate double doors. His thumb rubs gentle circles on my hand, offering silent comfort.
The doors give way under his push, and the air shifts as we step inside.
I am struck silent by the magnificence of the room before me. The sitting room is grand and elegant, with a cozy nook nestled by the large windows where I can imagine myself spending hours lost in a book. It’s as if a full-sized living room has been seamlessly incorporated into a bedroom, complete with plush couches for lounging.
Santo leads me through the threshold with a firm grip on my hand, never letting go as we enter the bedroom.
My eyes are immediately drawn to the imposing four-poster bed, a stark reminder of what it means to be his wife.
My heart flutters wildly at the thought.
I swallow hard, pushing the feeling down before my nerves can take over.
“Will you unzip me?” I ask softly, turning just enough to expose the zipper at the back of my dress.
“Of course.” Santo’s hand trails slowly down my spine, a whisper of heat against my skin as he grips the zipper and tugs it down.
The dress pools at my feet in a graceful cascade, leaving me bare save for delicate lace.
My breath catches.
The cool air against my skin. The weight of his gaze. The awareness of what’s expected—what I should do, what Ihaveto do.
Santo is speaking, but the words don’t reach me.
I don’t think.
I move.
I throw myself into his arms, pressing my lips to his in a fierce, frantic kiss.
Santo catches me, his hands steady, strong, molding to my body.
For a moment—he gives in.
He returns it.
