Page 187 of Chasing Ruin
My gaze drops to his bicep as I rest my hands on his shoulders. Vague swirls of black sharpie forming some shape I can’t identify.
But I freeze when I turn to look at his sketch pad. My frame locking with shock and wonder. Hands clenching.
There—amongst a tumultuous mess of flowers—is a wolf. Eyes closed, not with lack of life. But in a solemn prayer.
My eyes sting. I try to blink back the tears as the meaning settles in. Final. Brutal.
“It’s just an idea, my love,” he croaks, brushing his thumb under my eye—catching a tear.
I sniff, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. My throat closing up with conflicting emotions.
I can’t seem to grasp which one will win—guilt or forgiveness.
“Oh Charlotte.”
In a blink, Theo gathers me in his arms. Settling me on his lap. His hands run up and down my spine with slow, measured strokes.
He wordlessly turns the pad over. But it doesn’t stop the hurt already building in my chest.
I’m not breaking. At least, not yet.
But the thought that I won’t ever get a chance to actually build a semblance of a relationship with Dane…
“It’s okay, baby,” Theo says, voice cracking. “It’s okay. I… I’m sorry you saw that.”
I let out a wet cough, my breath hitching as I try to pull myself together.
It’s then that I feel the wetness on my forehead. My head snaps up, leaning back. Only to freeze at the sight of silent tears streaming down Theo’s face.
The man didn’t make a single sound. No break in his breathing. Simply kept his arms wrapped around me—comforting me.
“Oh,” I whimper brokenly, pulling at the sleeves of my hoodie. My hands fumble, tugging them down until they swallow my fingers.
Then I lift them to his face, cupping him as gently as I can. I wipe at his tears carefully—so carefully—avoiding the healing bruises still scattered across his skin.
My chest constricts painfully, throat burning as I keep going, brushing away every tear he refuses to acknowledge. Until a muffled, wet laugh escapes him.
His large hand comes up, fingers tangling in the damp fabric of my sleeves as they’re still pressed to his face. “Thanks, baby,” he rasps, a soft, tired smile pulling at his lips. “I’m good now.”
My chin wobbles. I thump my fists lightly against his chest before shifting off his lap to sit beside him—my small, useless attempt at defiance. “You can’t cry,” I mutter.
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Why? I’m sad. I can cry.”
Silence stretches.
“Wolf?” I ask in a whisper.
His smile falters. His throat works as he swallows hard, then he nods, sniffing as he drags his nose across my sleeve like a child.
I don’t even have it in me to protest.
“I kinda miss him,” he whispers, jaw tightening like the words are being dragged out of him.
We sit in silence after that.
I watch him pull himself back together piece by piece, like it costs him something every second.
Then he shifts away, just enough for the space between us to feel wrong.
