Page 128 of Boy of Ruin
“Who did you think I was, baby girl?” I ask her, wanting a real answer. Wanting to know where the fuck I went wrong. Why she can’t love me like I love her. Why she will never stop running, and why she’d rather be with him than me.
She looks down, at my hand on her throat, the other cupping her face. For the first time since we’ve been reunited, she looks sad. Genuinely anguished.
Heartbroken.
As if she’s realizing for the first time what I’ve realized.
That this will never work between us.
We’re too volatile. Too broken. And we hate just as hard as we love.
We’re not meant to be. Not forever.
But the time we had together? I already know now, even if I live for a hundred more fucking years, I’ll never forget it.
Or her.
Her eyes meet mine after a long moment and she takes a shaky breath as I stroke her cheek, trying to ignore the pale white scar above her eye that I put there.
“I’m not sure,” she answers me softly, her voice hoarse. Broken.
My heart hurts, and I have to resist the desire to run my thumb over my sternum, trying to keep it together. Trying not to break down right here, right fucking now.
“I just thought…” she trails off, her shoulders narrowing as she seems to shrink into herself a little more, but she doesn’t look away from me. “I just thought it was me and you forever.” She laughs, as if the idea is insane. “But I think we’d kill each other before we even got through a year.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, feel pressure building behind my eyes.
Because she’s right.
I searched for her for a year. For this past month, I did the same. But the thing I’ve realized about me and Lilith?
The hunt between us? That’s the best part.
Because everything after that? The catch?
That only leads to the kill.
Pulling onto the street I was taken from makes my hands shake. A knot twists in my gut, and I place my palm over my belly, try not to think about what’s under my shirt. The letter carved into my skin.
I wish I was wearing something more. A hoodie. A blanket. A fucking bulletproof vest, because now that Lucifer knows this will never work between us, now that I’ve dropped my goddamn knife, I think the only protection I have is with Mayhem.
And even that won’t last long.
He’ll choose Lucifer over me every time, and I don’t blame him.
I’ll do the same for J.
Mav pulls up Lucifer’s driveway—my driveway—and I wait with bated breath, twisting my head to look out the window at that cage, the tarp pinned down to it. I have to get him out of there, and I can only hope that he’s still unconscious. That, just like me, he won’t remember his trauma.
Which dancer was killed? Was it Cindy? Did it happen while I was there? I should ask, but part of me doesn’t want to know. And I should feel worse about it, but…I fucking don’t. Still, the fact someone killed a person working for J, took photos of me…and Elijah’s dead guard…
I push it from my mind. First, I have to get J out of that fucking crate.
The garage door is closed, Lucifer’s M5 presumably behind it, and I think about what it would be like to have my own car. To be able to go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted, not a target. Not a possession. Not a dirty little secret that needs to be constantly threatened with death to keep me in line. Not that it works, of course. But still.
It must be nice to have it. Freedom.
Lucifer opens up the door of the truck, the interior lights flooding through the cab. He stands in the driveway, ducking his head to look at me, behind his seat. He reaches for the control to lean the seat forward, but I don’t move.
