Page 120 of The Ruin I Chose

He was hot. Undeniably. The kind of hot that made your skin buzz and your thoughts misbehave. He stared at me for a beat too long and forgot to breathe. I brushed past him and entered the room.

“You look…”

“Hot? Stunning? Sexy?” I asked, not turning.

“Yeah. All of it. Does Marcello know you’re wearing that?” he asked.

“He’s asleep. Plus, I think he’ll like it.”

And if he didn’t, he’d learn to.

“Come on. Take a picture. I want to send it to Marcello. So he can see what he missed when he wakes up.”

I posed. He took a dozen flattering shots. I reviewed them and gave him a nod of approval.

“I can hire you as my personal photographer.” I winked.

“Now for your page. Let’s make the ladies go wild.”

He grinned. “You’re the bait. I’m the trap.”

He stepped behind me, hand sliding low to my waist. A little too low for sanity.

“You smell like heaven,” he murmured, voice grazing my neck. “Like sin dressed in silver.”

I froze, heart thudding. His fingers pressed just enough to make me forget. Just enough to make me remember. Marcello flickered through my mind—sharp, grounding—and I stilled.

We clicked pictures, making sure not to reveal any of our faces. Mystery was part of the thrill.

A few poses flirted with the edge—provocative and suggestive. Perfect for the algorithm. Dangerous for me. One had his hand on my lower back—a bit too low. His fingers flirted with the edge of scandal.

Another: his shirt undone, tattoos bared, my hands sprawled across his chest. My nails grazed ink and muscle. The camera caught the tension. I felt his chest tighten under my touch.

Then came the one. I stood facing him. Just glimpses of our faces. Too close. It looked like a kiss. But wasn’t. That was the tease.

His eyes dropped to my lips. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just stared—slowly licking his own lips. Like he was measuring how close was too close.

Heat crawled up my spine, and settled between my thighs. I snapped out of it, stepping back like I’d been burned. I didn’t owe anyone an explanation, but I owed myself clarity.

“Wow. These pictures are hot,” I said, too fast. Voice a pitch higher.

Like I needed to say something—anything—to break the spell.

“I should get Marcello to pose with me.”

“You won’t get the same effect,” Santino said, in a confident low voice.

Then he smirked slowly.

“I shoot tension. Not comfort.”

It wasn’t a boast. It was an admission. I rolled my eyes. But my skin still buzzed. And he just gave me his bad boy grin. But I know it meant something more, and I wasn’t ready for the chaos.

That grin had ruined women before. I wasn’t going to be one of them. He looked at me again, longer this time. Then stepped back. His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to the phone. He took one last photo. Then typed something.

I saw the message flash before he hit send.

And for the first time tonight, it wasn’t a flirt. It was a warning. Not to stake a claim. To protect one.