Page 118 of Chasing Ruin
My vision finally clears, and there he is. Ruin. Wearing a small smirk on his face, probably because he caught me sniffing his stupid duvet.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Charlotte
“What time is it?” My voice cracks.
“Almost four,” he rasps.
Closing whatever folder he has in his hands, he shifts. Stacking it on top of a bunch of documents. “You slept almost three hours. You hungry?”
The gentle tone of his voice irks me. But I stop myself from snapping. “Where’s Ryder?” I ask instead, and I see the exact moment his whole face shuts down.
The lines of his face carry the same bitterness from when he told me how he knew I’d kissed Ryder.
“With Wolf,” he tells me without looking at me.
It’s jealousy. I can see it. But even more than that, it’s restraint. It’s visible in the way his muscles stiffen up. The way it takes him locking his whole body up to stop from saying whatever he desperately wants to.
How the veins in his forearm slowly cord against the vines of his ink, as he grips the desk hard.
Unlike last time I saw this jealous edge, I don’t let his reaction pass the moment.
I don’t know what possesses me to say what comes out of my mouth next, but it does have the same effect as when I hurl insulting nicknames at him. “What—I can’t even say his name infront of you now because we kissed? Upgrading from hairless to aterritorialChihuahua, are we?”
His eyes snap back to mine. It’s no longer bitter, but heated in the way I’ve noticed so many times. His lips twitch at my newest attempt at creativity.
He huffs, closing his eyes as he shakes his head with a soft grin pasted on his face. Then he shifts in his chair again—almost imperceptibly. But I catch it.
I can’t see anything below his waist. But I’m absolutely certain that the muscles of his thighs are twitching behind that desk.
God. I’m playing with fucking fire. Why the hell did I change the mood? Why did his desolation irk me enough that I chose to lighten the mood by turning him on?
I could’ve made a joke. Even a grim, dark one. But,nooo.Charlotte Hayes wanted to validate her hypothesis—that the creativity of her nicknames is directly proportional to the duration of the twitch instupid pants.
“I know what you’re doing, Charlotte,” he says, voice low and patient, a faint smile still playing on his lips.
I almost scoff.I doubt you do.
“And trying to make me jealous with that kiss won’t rile me up,” he adds softly, one brow quirking.
Oh, you’re so off the mark.
“Yeah?” I chirp, the petulance slipping out before I can stop it. “Then what will?”
He exhales, voice infuriatingly gentle. “Nothing. That’s not my focus.” His gaze steadies on me. “You are.”
My eyes roll on instinct, even though I know—annoyingly enough— he means it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to your parents’ house?” I snap, the shift in topic sharp. “I would’ve wanted to see Mama and Torch too.”
The words come out harsher than intended. I know I’m being off. Weirdly so.
It was probably last minute. A quick visit. Or maybe—more likely—he just needed space after whatever the hell last night was.
Space from me.
His expression softens immediately. “I’m sorry. It’s still not safe yet.” He pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’ll take you soon, okay? We just need to wait a while.”
That tone, soft, careful, almost placating—irritates me more than it should.
