Page 187 of Boy of Ruin
She’s breathing softly, deep in sleep, and I almost don’t want to wake her for this. I’ll see her soft, round belly and it’ll be free of his name, and I’ll feel bad for disturbing her sleep.
But I can’t resist. Because as much as I know she wouldn’t…well, I also know her.
Softly, carefully, I pull the covers back, exposing her arms tucked under her pillow, the curve of her beautiful spine. The slight swell of her hips.
I let the sheet flutter down just below her hips and I take a breath, her arms tucked close to her chest, her breasts bigger than usual from the baby and fuck, I want to lick a line down them, but she’s still sleeping and maybe I can just look and see and get back in bed and hold her close again.
But when my eyes trail down past her sternum, to her soft belly, just above her hip…my blood runs cold.
I try to swallow, but I feel like I’m choking instead.
My palms are against the edge of the bed, a sour taste in my mouth as I stare at it, not really believing it. Thinking it’s some kind of…some kind of…trick of the moonlight or maybe I’m still fucked up from last night because it can’t be.
That can’t be a jagged, red name.
That can’t be a fucking goddamn J branded into her skin, just above her fucking pelvis, probably put there right before he fucking…
I stand with a scream, swinging my arm, knocking the lamp on the nightstand to the floor with a loud clatter.
She bolts upright, scrambling against the headboard as her wide eyes dart around the room. I take a step back from the bed, my hands clenched into fists. Because if I get too fucking close to her…if I fucking come near her…
It feels like my skin is crawling when she looks at me with that fear, leaning across the bed to flick on the lamp on my side, casting a dim white light around our bedroom.
When she turns back to me, I see concern in her eyes, the way her brows are pulled together, her hands fisted in the sheets, pooled down around her waist, her breasts exposed.
But I’m staring at her fucking face.
“How could you do that?” I manage to get out, feeling like I’m choking as I ask it. Like I’m fucking…drowning.
My chest caves in as she stares at me blankly, confused.
“Baby,” she whispers, and I used to love when she called me that. She didn’t do it nearly often enough, but when she did, my heart fucking burned for her, brighter than it usually did, because I’ve always burned for her. Since the moment I fucking met her at that intersection.
She was it for me.
She was fucking it.
But as my chest heaves, my heart fucking breaking, I realize she could be the one for me, but me? I might not be it for her.
Apparently, soul mates don’t exist and I am a dumb motherfucker.
I bring my knuckles to my mouth, stumbling back against the wall as she makes to get off the bed.
“Don’t,” I rasp out, shaking my head.
She freezes, one leg swung over the side of the bed, dangling above the floor. “Lucifer, did you have a bad dream—”
“You,” I tell her, choking up all over again as I lower my fist to my side. “You’re the bad dream, baby girl.” Tears pool in my eyes, not yet spilling over, and god, I want them to stay. I don’t want to cry over her. Not anymore. Not again. I’m so fucking sick of hurting over this beautiful fucking nightmare. “You’re the bad dream. I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you would…” I throw my hand out toward her and she’s still so fucking confused.
I want to shake her.
I want to carve her flesh away, carve his name off of her beautiful body.
Finally, as I drop my hand, raking my fingers through my hair, she looks down, and I hear her rush of breath as she sees the top of the fucking J, and she yanks the covers up, snapping her head back up to meet my gaze.
“Lucifer,” she whispers, “it’s…” She trails off, staring at me with an unreadable expression on her face. She doesn’t look nearly as broken apart as I feel.
She doesn’t look broken apart at all.
