Page 92 of Ruin
Iwake up to the sound of him on the phone.
Not in bed beside me. He's in my living room, voice low and clipped, issuing instructions calmly like a man who runs the world before breakfast.
The words filter through the bedroom door in fragments: "Her things. All of it. The car, too. I want it done by noon."
I lie still for a moment, cataloging the damage.
The bite on my shoulder throbs with every heartbeat.
My inner thighs ache in a way that's half bruise and half something I refuse to name.
The sheets smell like blood and sex and sandalwood, and my body is sore in places that make last night impossible to file away as a mistake, a lapse, a thing that happened in the dark that can be denied in daylight.
The knife is gone.
I can see the empty space under the dresser where it spun last night, and its absence feels like a verdict.
I sit up.
My T-shirt is twisted around my torso and my shorts are on the floor by the door where he tossed them, and I reach for them with hands that are steadier than they should be.
There's dried blood under my fingernails.His.
The thin line I opened on his throat before everything collapsed into teeth and skin and a hunger that didn't know the difference between hurting and wanting.
He appears in the doorway before I've finished dressing.
He leans against the frame, arms crossed, wearing yesterday's shirt with the collar dark and stiff where his blood dried.
The cut on his throat is a thin scab, precise as a signature.
I did that.
I held a blade to this man's neck and drew blood, and then I let him fuck me in the mess I made of him.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Moving you."
"Excuse me?"
"You're not safe here. Zhukov's people are watching this building. They left a message at one of my warehouses three days ago that referenced you specifically." He says it the way he says everything—like the decision has already been made and he's simply informing me of the outcome. "Peter and Lionel are on their way. They'll pack your things."
"No."
"This isn't a negotiation, Selene."
"Everything between us is a negotiation now." I stiffen my spine. The ache between my legs sharpens, and I refuse to let it show on my face. "You don't get to show up in the middle of the night, break into my apartment, and then rearrange my life because it's convenient for your security protocol."
"I didn't break in. I have a key."
"Which I didn't give you."
"You've known about it for months and never asked me to return it."
The accuracy of that lands like a slap.
He's right.
