Page 69 of A Very Ruins Christmas
I giggle until I catch his expression shift.
Santo stills.
Completely.
In his hands is a small leather bookmark.
Simple.
Pressed with gold scythe.
And at the bottom, embossed in delicate lettering:
Per sempre,
La tua Dea
Forever,
Your Dea.
He stares at it like it’s something holy.
“This is for…?” he asks quietly.
“For your mother’s journals,” I whisper. “So you don’t lose your place while you read them with me.”
His throat works.
His eyes go dark and soft and unbearably full.
“Come here,” he says softly, putting the bookmark to the side and opening his arms.
I climb into his lap and he cups my face, kissing me once, long and reverent, like I just handed him the sun.
“Best gift I’ve ever had, second only to you,” he says against my lips.
“Santo—”
“No,” he whispers. “You don’t understand.This…this means everything.Youmean everything.”
I smile into his mouth, curling against him, our gifts around us, the past and the future, tied together with love.
Outside, the snow falls softly.
Inside, his arms tighten around me.
He presses a kiss to my hair, voice low and warm.
“Merry Christmas, Dea.”
And for the very first Christmas in my life, I’m safe. I’m loved. I’m whole.
