Page 48 of Beautiful Ruin

My heart thuds hard in my chest.

“I hate that he did this to you,” she whispers.

“It is my fault. I deserved it.”

“Stop letting him decide what you deserve, Rowan,” she says softly.

I don’t stop her from leaning in and kissing me.

14

SOFIA

I’m not sure why the story slips out of me.

Why I’m telling him the fragmented memories I still have of my mother.

The words feel strange leaving my lips, soft and fragile in this world that has been built on harshness and discipline. But they keep coming anyway, carried by a need I can’t quite name.

Maybe it’s a distraction for us both, some flimsy attempt to fill the heavy silence with something gentler than the bruises darkening his skin. Or maybe it’s unrelenting guilt because no matter how many times he tells me Ivan’s temper isn’t my fault, the cuts and dark splotches on Rowan’s skin say otherwise.

I am the reason he disobeyed.

I am the reason his ironclad loyalty has finally cracked.

And while I never believed my uncle to be incapable of violence, I thought, perhaps foolishly, that Rowan might be exempt from it. He is Ivan’s favorite, after all. I realize now how naive that was.

The Bratva doesn’t make exceptions, not even for the man Ivan considers his adoptive son. Violence isn’t a failure of the system here. It is what it is made of. An unspoken agreement everyone signs the moment they step into its shadow and endure pain in exchange for protection, offering absolute obedience in exchange for power while sacrificing pieces of yourself all the while.

On paper, it’s simple. Tempting, even. As long as you don’t step out of line, you are fed, clothed, and shielded by one of the most fearsome men in Russia. Your enemies become nothing more than past irritations and your secrets stay buried.

All it costs is your soul.

Who wouldn’t take a deal like that?

Plenty of people I know, but not men like Rowan. Ones who grew up with nothing and for whom protection was a fantasy and hunger a daily companion. Men who learned early that obedience could be bartered for survival. Rowan made that bargain long ago, and the proof of it is written in red across his face.

Rowan doesn’t interrupt me at all. For the first time since I met him, he looks… human.

The shift happens without warning.

One moment, I’m pressing melting ice to his cheekbone and the next, my lips are brushing against his injured ones. I expect him to pull away immediately, to shut this down like he has in the past.

Instead, Rowan inhales slowly through his nose, and for a split second I panic. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t want this. He is my guard, my uncle’s most trusted weapon. Touching him is crossing a line that could get us both hurt.

But he doesn’t stop me. He leans in with devastating hunger, his mouth pressing firmly to mine, the kiss deepening as if he’s starved for something he didn’t know he was missing until this exact moment. I taste the faint copper of blood from his split lip and feel the rough glide of his tongue against mine. It sends liquid heat pooling low in my belly and between my thighs.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, holding me exactly where he wants me.

I groan against his mouth.

Rowan breaks the kiss abruptly, a harsh curse escaping him as he pushes back from me. The sudden loss of him leaves me dizzy and aching. I reach for him instinctively, but he jolts to his feet, stumbling backward as though my touch burns.

“We can’t do this.”

My eyes widen. “Rowan.”

He won’t look at me. The iron walls slam back into place, sealing him off from me completely. In seconds, the man who kissed me like he was drowning is gone, replaced by the weapon my uncle forged and the soldier who doesn’t allow himself softness or want.