Page 26 of Boy of Ruin
Especially if I never get her back.
Thinking of deep graves, I wonder if I should’ve had my father cremated. Burned to ash and buried far, far from here. I think his bones might poison Sanctum. Taint even the unholy grounds of the place that’s been my sanctuary and torment for over two decades now.
I think I first learned to walk here. My father told me that. Or maybe it was Pammie.
Maybe when she was deep throating my cock and tears streamed down my face as I pretended to hate it. Tried to lose myself in burning incense and better memories.
But I didn’t really have those.
There was nothing to hold onto.
Nothing until her.
“Luce, we have to go in—”
“Shut the fuck up.” I snarl those words, just like I said them to my wife a few weeks ago. I had her backed into a corner, my fists planted against the wall on either side of her head. She was scared of me.
I liked it.
I wonder if she thinks about that now and laughs.
I wonder if he scares her, too. Does she like it? Why does she always want him at his worst, but she needs me to be on my best fucking behavior?
Was I always supposed to let her go to him?
Why didn’t Maverick let him fucking die?
“Watch how you talk to me,” Mav says, his voice low. “I know you’re hurting, but we need to go to Council and find out what Elijah—”
“Why’d you do it?” I cut him off, leaning my head back against the leather seat, turning to glare at him, the lighter still in one hand, the other resting against my thigh. “Why’d you let her run to him?”
Maverick’s pale blue eyes are locked on mine, and he’s still got one hand on the wheel and another on the gearshift. I see the top of that one, my wife’s name etched across it.
Big, bold letters.
He’s got his dead brother’s name inked against the side of his hand, down his wrist. Malachi. And his sister, Brooklin, is over his chest.
Ella’s name is the biggest, on his hip, leading down into his pants.
I saw that at Noctem, right before he put his dick down my throat. I saw the letter too. From Jeremiah, to my fucking brother.
“I think you know the answer to that,” he says slowly.
I offer him a small smile, running my thumb over my bottom lip before I drop my hand back to my thigh. My scarred hand. Coagula.
I almost laugh, thinking about it. About how only Sid Rain could take something so perfectly holy and run away with it, ripping my heart out as she did. Sometimes I want to cut that fucking hand off, getting rid of any trace of her.
But I’ve got her scar on my thigh, too. Over my Unsaint’s tattoo. There are others from the Death Oath, but I know hers.
She’s got a matching one, and yet I can’t help but to think with Jeremiah Rain, she might have more scars. Bruises, maybe.
I wouldn’t put it past him to break her fucking bones either.
“I don’t, though,” I tell Mav, holding his gaze. “I don’t fucking know.”
I watch his tattooed throat bob as he swallows and averts his eyes to the stone cathedral ahead of us. “You could have killed her.”
My mouth goes dry with those words coming from his mouth. It wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t like that. I would have never—
