Page 30 of Boy of Ruin
That pain doesn’t hurt.
That pain is…survivable.
It’s this other, the fucking hole in my chest…it’s that I’m not sure I’ll make it through. I need to get myself together. I need to think about what Elijah just said.
But the room is spinning, and I can’t think, and I can’t breathe and I…can’t.
I need her.
I need my wife back. My goddamn wife.
“Respirare.”
Maverick’s voice. Over and over, the same Latin word. Breathe. Breathe.
Breathe.
I close my eyes. Inhale. I can smell Maverick, like leather and something else. Darker. His scent is soothing. His arms are tighter around me. He’s still speaking in my ear. Over and over and over.
I sink against him.
He’s holding me up, and I turn in his arms, throw my own around him, aware everyone is watching us.
I don’t care.
I rest my head on his shoulder, tears burning behind my eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare fucking cry.
“It’s okay,” Maverick says in my ear. “You can cry, Luce.” And then I can’t hold it in anymore.
I take a cold shower.
So fucking cold, I’m trembling as I plant my hands along the tile, hang my head and close my eyes, letting the water sting my skin. Bring about that numbness I’ve been craving lately.
Usually, it’s easy to slip into. Indifference. Unfeeling. Cold.
But lately, with her around, so close but so fucking far from me, it’s become increasingly harder.
My teeth are chattering, my left hand shaking violently, my right has just a soft tremor. I grind my teeth together, pressing the side of my face against the black tiles. I inhale deeply, trying to breathe through the cold. To take it. To drown in the pins and needles of it all.
I can still feel Cindy on me from last night. Her fingers digging into my shirt. I can still hear her moans as she grinded against me. Her begging me to take her home and fuck her.
But I couldn’t do it.
I’ve slept with her before, and she’s the best dancer I’ve got at Remorse, a club in Virginia, she came down just for me. But we aren’t friends, and I’m not fucking any other girl while Sid is under my roof.
Thinking of her, pregnant with his baby, it makes my fucking skin crawl, but at least I know she’s done with that shit. She’s not fucking anyone in my house.
I’d never do that to her. Maybe at the hotel, when I knew she wasn’t ready for me. When she wasn’t ready to hear the truth, and I didn’t want to tell her, because I thought if she knew we weren’t really related, she’d run from me, no excuse to stay by my side.
But now, I can’t do that.
Besides, the only woman I want is her. I want to own her. Brand her. Bruise her. I just fucking want her.
And in the three weeks she’s been here, since I gave Brooklin up for her, nothing has touched me but my own hand.
I slam my fist against the shower wall, pick my head up and curse under my breath, reaching for the silver handle, switching off the water.
