Page 161 of Boy of Ruin
It’s him.
It’s us.
My hands are shaky and I’m breathing hard. I take a small step back, catching my breath, seeing the red marks on his pale skin.
But I’m not done.
He opens his mouth to speak and I lift my hand, slap him across the face. His head spins, and for a moment, he just stares at the wall, away from me.
I still have my hand raised, I’m still panting, rage pushing through me in hot waves. Rage, jealousy, grief.
I want to curl up into a ball and fall apart.
But I don’t want to give him that.
After a moment, he flexes his jaw, turns his head to stare at me.
I drop my hand but curl it into a fist.
“How long did you fucking wait?” he asks me quietly, his voice full of venom. “Huh? Did you let him fuck you in the car? Suck his dick while he was driving, baby girl? How many times did he bruise you?” His words are little more than a whisper, but they’re so fucking cold. “You left me when things got hard. You fucking left me when I needed you—”
“They took me from our house!” I scream at him, my fingers coming to my hair as I step closer to him, going up on my tiptoes. “They took me from my goddamn house!”
His jaw ticks. “They took Ella, too,” he snarls. “Guess where she is? Here, with your fucking brother, where she belongs.”
My mouth goes dry, my tongue, too. How can he not see he’s hurting me? How can he be so fucking self-righteous after what I walked in on? Did he ever actually love me?
I don’t know what he sees on my face, but he steps closer. So close we’re nearly touching.
I tense, wanting to run again. To fucking bolt.
“Did you ever care?” I ask him instead. “Did you ever care I was gone? What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you just want to own me? How could you fucking fuck her again?”
His face is expressionless. I don’t know what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling. He’s so hard to read, and I swear, most of the time, he really does hate me.
I feel like I’m going to break again.
I feel like this has to end.
This has to fucking end.
But he still doesn’t say a goddamn word.
“I fucking hate you,” I tell him, my words breaking. “I hate you. I can’t stand the fucking sight of you. You have done nothing but ruin my fucking life. You should’ve let me die, Lucifer.”
His expression changes. His eyes are big and sad, and he takes another step closer.
“You should’ve let me die, if you were just going to…” I bring my hands back to my hair, pulling at it and closing my eyes. “If you were just going to fuck me up and fuck me over, you should’ve just let. Me. Die.” My voice is hoarse, and I can’t get the last words out before a sob rips through me, and his arms are around me.
He smells like vodka, and her, and I hate him all the more for it, but I’m too tired.
So, fucking tired.
I just want things to be okay, one way or another.
I just want shit to be okay. I just want this to end.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, my head against his chest, his head resting on mine. “I’m fucking sorry. I didn’t think you cared. I just thought…”
