Page 46 of The Ruin I Chose

ROXANNE

The air nipped at my skin as we stepped out of the house.

Not cold—just sharp enough to remind me I was no longer wrapped in warmth. I hugged my arms around myself, the scent of cypress thick in the air, grounding me.

The Leopardi estate stretched out before me, regal and quiet. I stared at it a little too long, trying to memorise the feeling of being seen. Because being seen meant being wanted, and being wanted meant I could lose something again.

What had just happened?

Marcello’s protective yet possessive demeanour. The ride here—thrilling, reckless. His family—warm, disarming. My own confession about Kyra—unexpected, but strangely freeing.

Why had I done that? I didn’t know. Only that the weight had lifted, even if just for a moment. But nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

Marcello had opened up. Really opened up. He had let me in. Not just with words—but with wounds. I was stunned. And yet, I appreciated his honesty more than I could say. Men didn’t unravel for me. Not like that. Not with wounds that bled truth. And there was nothing sexier than a man who didn’t hide behind armour.

But I hadn’t been honest with him. Not entirely. And now he’d reminded me—two days. That’s all I had left.

Two days, and then our paths would likely never cross again. Two days to let this feeling linger. Two days to pretend it wasn’t already ending. To hold on to him a little longer. To let this ache bloom before I buried it. And I was terrified by how deeply it was rooting itself already.

I felt for him. His pain. His anger. And I didn’t want to add my own grief to the pile. Not yet. I didn’t know what this was. What we were—whether it was just sexual, or something more.

“Did you enjoy the ride?” the voice broke through my thoughts.

I turned. Santino stood by a sleek black car, arms crossed, a crooked smile playing on his lips. Martin was beside him—stoic, silent, dressed like a shadow.

The contrast was stark. Santino, casual and charming. Martin, formal and silent.

“You’ve come to get her?” I asked, arching a brow and nodding towards the Ducati.

“Didn’t you trust us?” I asked playfully.

Another exhilarating ride would just numb my thoughts.

“Her?” Santino smirked.

His eyes flicked to me, slow and deliberate. Like he was sizing me up—with curiosity. The kind that lingers. There was heat in it too—unsubtle, masculine, impossible to ignore. A shiver ran down my spine—unwanted, but undeniable.

“We’ve had too much to drink,” Marcello cut through our banter.

I walked up to Santino, placed my hands on his shoulders, and rose onto my toes. I kissed his cheek.

“Thank you. She’s a wonder.”

His skin was warm, his scent—leather and smoke. I lingered just long enough to feel the tension ripple through Marcello. Santino didn’t recoil. He just looked at me, eyes glinting with mischief, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Maybe I shouldn’t have enjoyed provoking Marcello this much. But God, the way his jealousy tasted… it was intoxicating.

Marcello’s jaw clenched. His eyes didn’t just darken—they burned. He stepped forward like he was about to wipe the smirk off of Santino’s face. But he didn’t. He just opened the car door for me, silent and seething.

And I felt the storm he was holding back. Santino froze and scrambled over to his bike.

“Get in,” Marcello ordered, opening the door for me.

Santino revved the Ducati and sped off before Marcello could say another word. He didn’t look back. But I stared into the darkness and smoke of dust he left behind.

Martin opened the driver’s side door to the car and got in—a sleek Maserati Quattroporte, tinted windows, leather interior, and a privacy screen between driver and passenger.

Marcello slid in beside me and the screen went up. Silence. Then a hiss.