Page 34

Chapter 33

Seanna

He’s watching me again.

Same armchair. Same posture. Same silent stare like I’m a painting he keeps trying to memorize in case I disappear.

As though he didn’t wake me last night with his cock already buried deep inside me. As though he didn’t fuck me until my body melted into the mattress and I couldn't remember why I hated them.

As though he didn’t leave me raw, shaking, and wide-eyed in the dark.

But now? Now he just sits there like the model of fucking restraint while I stir under the covers, pretending I didn’t notice the way my thighs are still sticky from him.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a hello.

I throw the blanket off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, head pounding, body sore, mouth dry. My oversized shirt clings to my skin and smells faintly like sweat and him, which only pisses me off more.

Ruin’s voice breaks the quiet. Low. Even. Like I haven’t been fantasizing about driving a knife through his ribcage since I opened my eyes.

“Rule told you because he had to.” His tone is quiet, like he’s being reasonable. “It was time. Even if it’s not the whole truth yet.”

I snort. “Not the whole truth?” I shoot him a glare sharp enough to draw blood. “What does it matter if it's the whole truth? You think hiding the fact that he’s Reyes’ little prince isn’t just slightly relevant?”

“He’s not hiding anymore,” Ruin answers carefully, voice still modulated beneath the mask. “He knew it would cost him something. He told you anyway.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, standing and shoving my fingers through my hair. “Because nothing says trust like kidnapping and then revealing that you're cartel fucking royalty.”

Ruin watches me, silent for a beat. Then he leans forward slightly, arms on his knees. “You would’ve found out eventually.”

“That supposed to make it better?” I ask flatly, walking to the dresser and yanking out a fresh shirt and clean underwear. “Newsflash, I don’t feel grateful. ”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rise to the bait.

“He still hasn’t told you everything,” he says, voice low and honest. “Neither have I. But this… this was a start.”

I stare at him for a long moment, then shake my head. “You know what I hate most?” I ask quietly. “You fuckers think that because you know me—because you’ve watched me—I’m going to roll over and play nice once the truth starts dripping out.”

“You don’t roll over,” Ruin replies calmly. “You bare your teeth and tear out throats.”

“Damn right,” I snap, turning away from him and storming into the bathroom. I shut the door harder than necessary, but not hard enough to break anything. Not yet.

I stay in there longer than I need to. Take care of business. Wash my face. Avoid looking at myself in the mirror.

I throw on the shirt and underwear I grabbed—still oversized, still one of mine they brought from home, but this one doesn’t reek of memories just yet. I grab a hair tie, twist my hair into a bun. When I come back out, the room’s empty. Ruin’s gone.

Good.

I sink onto the edge of the bed slowly, hands braced on my thighs, staring at the floor like it’s supposed to hold some kind of fucking answer. My chest tightens. Not with grief. Not with fear.

With the kind of rage that smolders quietly and poisons you from the inside.

I hate that they think they know me. I hate that they do.

And most of all? I hate that part of me is still listening. Still curious. Still waiting for the next goddamn shoe to drop like I don’t already know I’m barefoot in a fucking minefield.

They haven’t shown me their faces.

They haven’t told me the rest.

And I haven’t burned the place down yet.

Which might be the most terrifying part of all.

The rest of the day drags.

Rule tries. Of course he does. He steps just inside the door at breakfast with a plate and what I assume is cold coffee. Simply waits with that stupid patience of his, standing there like some kind of wounded dog.

I simply turn away.

At lunch, I finally accept the food, because hunger trumps pride and I’m not stupid. I take the plate and water from his hands before telling him to get out, and I eat in silence. The food is good. Of course it is. The asshole probably made it himself, like feeding me will make me forgive him.

It doesn’t.

I eat everything. And I don’t say a word.

Dinner is the same. Except this time when he steps in, I have a scowl already in place.

“Seanna—”

“Don’t.” I snatch the plate from his hand. “You had your moment of honesty. Congrats. Gold star. Don’t think for one fucking second it bought you anything.”

His jaw clenches and I can tell he wants to say more—but he doesn’t.

Smart.

I point him out the door again. Eat. Stew. Let the rage cool just enough to be bearable.

I pace the room once. Twice. My muscles ache with the need to hit something, scream, fight. But the rage doesn’t boil anymore. It broods. Smolders. Lingers like a storm just waiting for someone stupid enough to step outside.

When I go into the bathroom again I catch my reflection in the mirror—hair a mess, face pale, eyes sharp and wild.

Still me.

Just… more cracked than I’d like to admit.

Eventually, I peel myself off the edge of the storm and force myself into the shower. Not because I want to feel clean—God knows that ship has sailed—but because my skin feels tight, like it’s trying to crawl away from my bones. Like if I don’t do something, I’ll lose whatever grip I’ve got left.

Hot water. Steam. Silence.

None of it helps.

I scrub until my skin is raw, until I can’t smell them anymore—except I can. Still there. Still underneath everything.

When I step out, the mirror’s fogged, the room thick with heat, but nothing’s changed. I towel off, throw on another one of the shirts they packed from my drawer.

Later, Ruin returns.

I know it’s him because he isn’t moving like a kicked puppy. He just opens the door and walks in like it’s his right.

“Do you have a fucking death wish?” I snap, already standing, body coiled tight.

He closes the door behind him without a word.

“I gave you space,” he says calmly, voice still filtered through the modulator. “All day. You’ve had time to think.”

I narrow my eyes, arms crossed. “And you decided now was the moment to get brave?”

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying me—measuring the amount of fury left in my bones.

“You’re not as angry as you were.”

“Maybe I’m just better at hiding it,” I shoot back, taking a step toward him. “Or maybe I’m just saving it for the right moment.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just keeps staring through that mask like it sees straight through me.

“You’re right to be pissed,” he says eventually. “You deserved the truth sooner. But if Rule had told you from the start, you never would’ve listened. You would’ve run. And I wasn’t about to lose you over your own fucking pride.”

My lip curls. “Don’t talk to me about pride like it’s some flaw. You of all people don’t get to lecture me.”

His gloved hands flex slightly at his sides, like he wants to reach for me but knows better. “You think I’m here to lecture you?”

“Then why are you here?” I demand, stepping in close. “To explain? To justify the lies? To make another speech about how this is for my own good?”

“No,” he says. “I’m here because I couldn’t stay away any longer.”

My breath catches.

He closes the distance in one slow step, towering over me like some specter of obsession that’s been haunting my dreams. I hate how the sight of either of them does something to me. How it pulls heat low in my stomach despite everything. Despite him.

“Get out,” I whisper, not backing down even as my voice betrays me.

He lifts a hand but doesn’t touch me, just hovers it near my jaw. “Tell me you don’t want to understand. That you don’t want to know the rest. And I’ll leave.”

I say nothing. I can’t. Because the truth is—I do want to know. Every dark, twisted secret they’re still hiding. Every fucked-up reason they think I belong to them. Every mask. Every name. Every motive.

But I’m not giving him that. Not yet.

“I don’t forgive you,” I say instead.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“And I’m not yours.”

His voice drops low. “Yes, you are.”

My skin prickles. I hate that he’s right.

Hate that I’m not throwing a punch. Hate that I’m letting him stand this close. Hate that my body remembers the way he touched me like he knew it better than I do.

His voice softens. “We’ve both done fucked-up things, Seanna. You’re not clean. You never wanted to be. And that’s why this works. Because Rule and I—we don’t want the sanitized version of you.”

He shifts even closer now, like he’s daring me to swing. Like he wants it. My pulse jumps, but I don’t move. I don’t give ground. I just stare up at him like I’m willing him to combust under the weight of everything I haven’t said yet.

But he doesn’t burn.

“I knew who you were before I ever saw you,” Ruin says quietly. “Before I saw your face. Before I ever heard your voice. Your name was already carved into my fucking head.”

That stills me.

He continues.

“I was young. A teenager. Too young to be feeling what I felt for someone I hadn’t even laid eyes on. But it didn’t matter. Because the second I knew you existed, it was already over for me.”

My stomach twists.

“I watched everything,” he says, softer now. “Every move. Every breath you gave to the world. And it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. I needed more. I’ve always needed more.”

He tilts his head again, and for the first time, there’s something fraying around the edges of his calm. Something dangerous.

“It got worse with time. My obsession grew deeper, sicker. I stopped pretending it was anything else. I stopped fighting it. And when Rule finally saw you too?” He gives a slow exhale. “We knew we were in this obsession together . Because no one else would ever fucking understand what you are.”

I swallow hard, something thick rising in my chest that I refuse to call emotion.

“I would kill for you, Seanna,” Ruin says, voice low and lethal now. “I have. I will again if I have to.”

My breath stalls.

“I’d burn down cities if it meant keeping you out of someone else’s hands. I’d flood streets in blood and sleep like a baby next to you. There is no world where I let you go. No version of me that ever fucking stops.”

My heart is thundering now. Not from fear. Not exactly.

From the terrifying pull of hearing someone say the thing you didn’t even realize you’ve always craved.

“I’d burn down the goddamn world for you,” he finishes, voice a gravel-sharp whisper behind the mask. “And I wouldn’t feel a single fucking ounce of guilt.”

Silence pulses between us.

I hate him. I want to touch him. I want to run. I want to stay.

My jaw clenches, hands curled into fists. “You’re insane.”

His head dips. “I know.”

“You’re unhinged.”

“Yes.”

“I’m still not yours.”

He laughs quietly—low, dark, reverent. “That’s the funniest lie you’ve ever told.”

And then he does the thing I don’t expect.

He turns.

He walks toward the door like he didn’t just tear himself open at my feet. Like he didn’t just admit something that would make most people scream.

But before he leaves, he pauses, hand on the knob.

“You’ll know everything soon. And when you do? You’ll understand why this was never going to end any other way.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

And I’m left with silence. But it's not a peaceful silence. The kind of silence that comes after a detonation—when the world still feels like it’s ringing and you’re waiting to see if the building is going to collapse or hold.

I stare at the door like it might open again. Like he might take it back. Or come back and finish what he started.

I’m shaking. Not visibly. Not enough for someone else to see.

But I feel it. Under my skin. In the pit of my stomach.

I sink onto the edge of the bed slowly, chest tight, thoughts spiraling.

Because I should hate him. But I don’t.

And he was right about one thing.

It was a lie.