Page 22 of Beautiful Ruins
And the fact that I didn’t want it to only made it worse.
8
Izzy
Iwasn’t snooping.
I told myself that as I wandered the halls of his house, barefoot and restless, tracing the edges of rooms I wasn’t supposed to care about.The place was too big to feel lived in.Too clean.Too careful.Like a museum curated by someone who didn’t want fingerprints on anything important.
I passed a doorway and heard his voice.
I stopped without thinking.
He was on the phone, somewhere ahead of me, speaking easily—warm, even.I edged closer, careful with my steps, every nerve lit and listening.
“No, no,” he laughed softly.“That’s way too much charge.You don’t want spectacle—you want precision.”
I pressed my hand to the wall.
“You don’t blow the whole damn thing,” he pointed out.“You just remove the problem.”
There was a pause, then another low laugh.It sounded almost cheerful.Like he was discussing recipes or weekend plans.
I swallowed.
He was talking about blowing something up.
Casually.
I waited for fear to hit.For my stomach to drop or my skin to crawl.For the sensible part of me to screamrun.It didn’t.
Instead, curiosity crept in, slow and unwelcome.
How did someone laugh like that about destruction and still move through the world so confidently?How did he joke about explosives and yet take the time to cook dinner—even if it was terrible—and make sure I ate?
The contradiction didn’t make sense.
He ended the call a moment later, and I stepped away before he could see me, heart racing now as I headed to the library.
I sank onto the edge of a couch and hugged a pillow to my chest, trying to steady my breathing.
He wasn’t cruel.
Cruel men enjoyed suffering.
He enjoyeddominance.
And underneath that—buried deep enough that it barely showed—something in him felt broken.Like whatever had shattered him had left sharp edges behind.
That should have scared me.
Instead, I found myself wondering what it would take to make him laugh like thatwithme.
And that was the most destructive thought I’d had yet.
The doorbell shattered it.
Not a polite chime.Not a single press.This was a persistent, unapologeticring-ring-ring—the kind that suggested the person on the other side had opinions about waiting and none of them were patient.
