35. Her Ruin
Chapter thirty-five
Her Ruin
The room is quiet except for her soft, even breathing. She’s finally asleep, and I should feel some sense of victory, some pride in the way I’ve unraveled her walls piece by piece. But as I sit on the edge of the bed, looking down at her, all I feel is a gnawing ache in my chest.
Her wrists are red, the skin chafed where the ropes held her earlier. I’ve already rubbed ointment on them, even though she flinched in her sleep.
Tomorrow, she’ll feel it—the ache in her muscles, the sting at her wrists. She’ll wince every time she moves, and every time she does, she’ll think of me. Every mark she’ll wear tomorrow—they’re all mine.
I reach out, my fingers brushing the edge of the sheet where it’s draped over her shoulder. Her skin is soft, and for a second, I feel the pull again—the need to touch her, to take her, to remind her that she belongs to me.
But I don’t. Not now. Instead, I pull the sheet higher, covering her, tucking it around her like it’s enough to protect her from everything I’ve already done.
Her hair’s a mess, tangled and damp from the bath, her face flushed from exhaustion. She looks peaceful, but I know better. She’ll wake up tomorrow and fight me all over again, pretending she doesn’t want this, doesn’t want me. But she does. She always has.
She shifts in her sleep, murmuring something too soft to hear, and my eyes drop to her lips. They’re parted slightly, swollen from the way I kissed her, the way she kissed me back. And then, there’s the word she said earlier, the one that’s been replaying in my mind since it left her mouth.
Sin.
It wasn’t much, just one word, a slip in the heat of the moment, but it was enough. Enough to tell me that the cracks are forming, that somewhere in that carefully constructed version of her life, she’s starting to remember. Maybe not everything. Not yet. But it’s a start.
That has to mean something. It has to.
“You’re not as far gone as you think,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’re still in there, Little Sinner. And I’ll drag you back out piece by piece if I have to.”
I let my eyes roam over her. She’s so goddamn beautiful it almost hurts, like looking at something you know you can’t have but can’t bring yourself to walk away from. But she’s not something I can’t have.
She’s here, with me, exactly where she’s supposed to be. And no matter how much she fights it, no matter how many times she tells herself she doesn’t want this, I know the truth.
Why did she forget? How could she forget what happened in those cells? What we shared? I’ve been over it a thousand times in my head, and it never makes sense. She wasn’t just surviving in there. She chose me, over and over again. She gave herself to me in a way I’ve never seen from anyone, not before, not since. And then she ran.
“Why did you run, Aria?” I murmur, my voice low, like she might answer me in her sleep. “What the fuck were you so afraid of?”
I hate the way my chest tightens, hate the way the memory of her slipping away from me all those years ago still feels like a knife in my side. I risked everything to keep her, and when I turned around, she was gone. Just gone.
I drag a hand through my hair, letting out a low growl as the frustration builds, simmering just under the surface. She didn’t just leave me behind—she left us behind. Everything we were, everything we could’ve been, thrown away like it didn’t fucking matter.
But it mattered. It mattered to me. It still does.
She shifts again, her brow furrowing, a soft whimper escaping her lips. My hands curl into fists at my sides, the need to wake her up, to pull her into my arms, almost unbearable.
But I don’t. I let her sleep, because she’ll need her strength tomorrow. She’ll need it to deal with me.
I stand, grabbing the chair from the corner of the room and dragging it closer to the bed. I sit, my elbows on my knees, my eyes never leaving her. It’s a habit I’ve picked up over the years, watching her like this when she’s quiet, when she doesn’t have walls up to hide behind.
It’s the only time she’s honest, the only time I can see the girl she used to be, the girl I’ve been chasing since the moment I first saw her. The girl who forced me to see who I belonged to.
“You’re remembering,” I say softly, leaning forward, my voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t even realize it, but it’s there, in the back of your mind, waiting to come to the surface.”
I reach out, my fingers brushing against her hair, and she lets out another soft sound, her face turning slightly toward me. It’s enough to make something sharp and aching settle in my chest, but I shove it down, locking it away where it can’t distract me.
“You don’t get to forget me, Aria,” I say, the words a promise. “You don’t get to pretend like I’m just some shadow in your past. I’m here, right in front of you, and I’m not going anywhere.”
I could stay here all night, just watching her, memorizing every line, every curve, every soft sound she makes.
“You’ll wake up tomorrow, and you’ll try to pretend like nothing’s changed,” I say, my voice low, steady. “But it has. You’re remembering, whether you like it or not. And it’s only a matter of time before you stop fighting it.”