Page 122 of Ruin My Life

“It would,” he says quietly. “But then I’d lose you too.”

The words land like a sucker punch to my chest.

My ribs ache, and my heart starts pounding—like it’s trying to escape and save itself from the blow.

I force a grin, trying to keep it playful. “That implies you have me already.”

I step between his knees, just like I did in the hotel room.

Back then, I had my gun.

Back then, he didn’t know what I was capable of.

Now?I’mthe weapon.

And he doesn’t even realize it.

“You’re right,” he murmurs. “You may not be mine to lose. But I’d feel it all the same.”

His gaze dips down, to the place where my thighs meet the silk hem of my shorts. He lifts one hand—slow and reverent—and brushes his knuckle along the outer curve of my leg, just above the fading powder burn.

It doesn’t hurt now. But his fingers leave a trail of fire behind them.

“I’ve made mistakes that’ve gotten people hurt. People who didn’t deserve it,” he says, his voice so low I barely catch the words. “And I’m not ready to add you to that list.”

The tenderness in his tone is worse than the fire.

It coils tight in my ribs, something sharp and aching.

Then he whispers in my ear—like a confession he’s too ashamed to admit to anyone but me.

“Forgive me... for being a little selfish with you.”

It’s too much. Too intimate. Too honest.

And ithurts.

I cup his jaw, force him to look at me again. His skin is warm beneath my fingertips. Too warm.

“I’m fine,” I say, soft but sure.

He exhales like I just proved his point.

“You’re always fine,” he replies. “What will it take to make you feel more than just fine?”

I open my mouth again.

But nothing comes out.

Because I don’t remember what it feels like to bemorethan fine. I only know how to survive.

I avoid his question and shift forward, tucking my knees onto the couch and letting them sink into the cushions on either side of his hips. The movement catches him off guard—his body tenses, his hands lifting like he’s afraid to touch me.

Like I might break if he does.

“I’m not a porcelain doll,” I remind him. “I’m not fragile. You don’t need to protect me. Especially not from yourself.”

I lean in, draping my arms loosely around the back of his neck. My breath brushes the shell of his ear, and I feel the shudder that ripples through him.