Page 50 of The Ruin I Chose

I wanted to tell him. That I felt something. That I had developed feelings for him. Even in this short while. I still did. That I might be in love with him.

But instead, I whispered, “I’ll miss you.”

The truth pressed against my ribs, begging to be spoken. I wanted to say more. That I felt something real. That I didn’t know how to carry it home with me.

But the words stayed lodged in my throat, afraid of what they might break. He held me tighter, and I cried. He didn’t let go. Just held me, bare and trembling, until sleep took me again.

I woke to soft snoring. He was beside me, sleeping on his stomach, blanket draped low across his hips.

I reached for my phone. No messages. No calls. I turned on the camera and took a photo of him—a keepsake.

His lips were parted; his head tilted towards me. His back rose and fell with each breath, muscles shifting beneath his skin. A traditional Thai Sak Yant stretched between his shoulder blades—lines of protection and power inked into him.

His hair was ruffled, wild from our night. I watched him breathe. And for a moment, I let myself believe he was mine.

I should have looked away, but I couldn’t. Not from him. Not from this. Then came a knock.

Marcello stirred, groaning.

“Ignore it. Don’t go.”

I slipped on a robe and opened the door. The maid stood there, polite and composed.

“Signor Antonio will be waiting for you both on the cliffside terrace for brunch.”

I nodded and returned to the bed. Marcello was still half-asleep. With eyes closed, he patted my side of the bed, motioning me to come back to bed. I climbed back in, brushing my fingers through his hair, planting soft kisses along his jaw, shoulder, and down his back. Each kiss deepened into a bite—gentle, teasing—leaving faint marks across his skin.

I nibbled his ear, whispering,

“Wake up. Antonio is waiting.”

He rolled over, pulling me on top of him. Nuzzling into my neck, he said,

“I could get used to an alarm like this.”

I blushed, laughing softly. But the warmth in my chest was quickly replaced by a quiet ache. I hadn’t told him. Not about my husband. Not about the turmoil in my heart. And I needed to.

I was building something fragile on borrowed time. And every kiss, every laugh, every touch made it harder to imagine leaving.

We showered together, scrubbing each other, tracing, trying to memorise the other’s body. We dressed slowly, stealing quiet kisses and touches. When we stepped out, our arms around each other’s waists, giggling like teenagers.

Antonio looked up from the terrace table, espresso in hand. His brows lifted as he leaned back in his chair, smirking.

“Cu si vidi… guardati chi si fa vidiri. Stavo quasi per chiamare la squadra di ricerca.”

(Well, well… look who decided to show up. I was about to call in a search party.)

Then, switching to English for me, his grin widening:

“I’ve been waiting.”

He said it with mock impatience, but the warmth in his voice was unmistakable. There was something in his tone—playful, but observant. Like he was cataloguing the shift between us. Like he’d seen Marcello with women before, but never like this.

His eyes flicked between us, taking in the closeness, the ease, the way Marcello’s hand rested at my waist.

Marcello didn’t respond immediately. He just exhaled through his nose, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Then he pulled out a chair for me, fingers brushing mine as I sat. He leaned towards Antonio, muttering something in Sicilian that made them both chuckle.

But his eyes kept drifting back to me. Soft. Watchful. Like he was lingering on the way I looked in the morning light. Every time our eyes met, something unspoken pulsed between us.