Page 133 of Chasing Ruin
I lunge, instantly wincing as my knee slams into the ground. Pain shoots up my leg, but it barely registers. Swallowing the scream clawing up my throat, I scramble forward, my palms scraping against the jagged floor.
My skin burns.
Why is he here?
“R-Ruin,” I croak, my voice barely shaping his name.
I reach the far end of my cell, pressing myself against the cold metal bars as they dig into my cheeks. I flatten against them as if I can somehow push through.
Are you alive? Why won’t you move?
A quiet, broken sound leaves me. I don’t even realize I’m crying at first—not until the tears blur him, smear him into something unreal. Not until my breath starts hitching, my chest tightening.
But it doesn’t matter. The noises around me—those whimpers, torn-apart cries—swallow mine whole.
He’s sitting with his back against the wall, chin resting on his chest.
Both his arms are raised, brutally manacled above his head, like all the other men. I wince at the metal cutting into his skin, wrists swollen and angry where the shackles bite deep.
The tattoos on his hands—those beautiful, intricate thorns—they’re slick now with sweat and blood.
The coiling vines that once wrapped his wrists like restraints are buried beneath cruel, veryrealshackles.
God. His face is bruised, mottled with dark purples and reds. Blood drips steadily from the corner of his mouth, tracing a slow, merciless path down his chin to his chest.
He’s not wearing his shirt. Just his cut—torn, bloodied—crumpled between his neck and shoulders like someone couldn’t even be bothered to dress him properly after breaking him.
There’s a dressing wrapped around his abdomen. Thick. Soaked with blood.
My stomach twists violently.
His jeans are cut open at the knee on his left leg, the fabric jagged and uneven. A bandage wraps around his shin—stained.
Please be alive.
A sob catches in my throat. “Theo.” His given name breaks out of me like something fragile. Something sacred.
The only fucking sign is the uneven rise and fall of his chest. It’s shallow. Wrong. Barely there.
His legs stretch out in front of him. He’s barefoot.
Something about that feels too vulnerable, too exposed. Like they stripped him down to nothing before chaining him here.
“T-Theo, please,” I whisper, my voice splintering. “Please, w-wake up. Please.” The one time I amable to say his name and he can’t even hear me.
The distance is unbearable. It’s too much even if it’s only a few feet.
I reach through the bars, my arm snaking out as far as it can go. My fingers stretch, strain—aching with the need to touch him. To feel him. To know he’s real.
But I can’t reach.
A broken sound tears out of me.
Shit.
I drop to the ground fully, my body hitting the floor hard. The impact jolts through me, but I ignore it, twisting, stretching—pushing myself further.
My shoulder burns. The jagged stony floor digs into my chest, my face tilting sideways, pressing hard against the bars. I don’t care. “Please.”
