Page 31 of Bound in Ruin

She takes her shower first, shutting herself in the bathroom without so much as a glance in my direction. By the time I finish taking my own cold shower after her, attempting to wash the metallic scent of blood from my skin, she is already in bed.

She’s curled on her side, facing the dark wall, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as if she’s already asleep. I know she isn’t. But even when I stand right by the foot of the bed and change into my briefs, her gaze doesn't wander toward me like it did the other night. She doesn't move a muscle.

I climb into the sheets beside her, keeping to my side of the mattress, the space between us feeling wide enough to carve a canyon through.

Staring up at the dark ceiling, the silence of the bedroom closing in around me, a bitter realization settles heavy in my chest.

I’ve allowed Rosalia to burrow under my skin in ways I never should have let any woman touch. I’ve lost control of the one thing I promised myself I’d command—and by letting her see the rot on my hands tonight, I have fucked up royally.

And I have no one to blame for it but myself.

As usual, I’m up early before Rosalia the next morning.

The moment I open my eyes, that same crippling weight of worry slams into my chest so hard I let out an audible groan against the pillow.

Fuck. I should be way past this feeling. I’m not some wide-eyed kid agonizing over a girl; I’m a man who commands an empire.

Desperate to flush the chaos out of my head, I roll out of bed and head straight to the private gym downstairs, eager to let a brutal workout knock some damn sense back into me.

Iron and sweat have always been the only things capable of giving me total clarity and focus.

After a solid hour in the gym, it becomes painfully clear that it’s not working.

My focus is completely shot. I’ve been making amateur mistakes the entire session—hell, I almost crushed my foot dropping a heavy dumbbell—and I finally accept that pushing iron isn't going to clear my head today.

I could simply talk to Rosalia, but communicating with her is like navigating a minefield. She has so many secrets built up, hates so many things about the world she was forced into, that the cold reality of it pisses me off just as much as it breaks my fucking heart.

Giving up on the workout, I wipe the sweat from my neck and head out to the private garage tucked behind the estate.

It is one of the rare places in my life where I'm not surrounded by business, blood, or violence. Here, I work on my collection of old cars—a private hobby only my personal friends, Keane and Helena, know about.

I’m comfortable out here because no one expects anything from me except silence and tools. There are no high-stake negotiations, no traitors to interrogate, and no fragile wives to terrify.

I pull out a heavy toolbox, set it beside a vintage car I bought for a ridiculous amount of money two years ago, and pop the hood, finally letting the quiet take over.

I lean over the open engine bay, allowing the familiar smell of motor oil and cold steel to wrap around me, grounding me in a way nothing else can.

The car is a classic 1969 Dodge Charger—a beast of a machine that had been rotting in some collector’s barn before I bought it. It’s a complete restoration project, a mess of worn-out parts and misaligned timing.

Right now, I'm focusing on the carburetor and the fuel delivery system. The engine has been idling rough, sputtering like a dying flame whenever I turn the key, and I know the air-fuel mixture is all out of order.

I pick up a socket wrench, selecting the exact size by muscle memory, and begin loosening the bolts on the air cleaner assembly.

I don't have to calculate every move, anticipate an enemy's next strike, or command a room filled with dangerous men. An engine doesn't lie to you. It doesn't play power games or hold grudges. If something is broken, it's because a part is worn down or out of place.

It’s simple, logical, and entirely within my control.

I pull off the housing, exposing the twin-barrel carburetor beneath. My fingers work with quiet patience. I carefully clean out the clogged jets, wiping away decades of grime with a rag, before adjusting the idle mixture screws by tiny, precise increments.

With every turn of the wrench, the chaotic noise in my head begins to dim.

"Ahem." Someone clears their throat behind me, and I don’t even need to turn around to know it’s Helena.

"What?" I ask, keeping my eyes fixed on the carburetor.

She walks over, her footsteps echoing against the concrete floor until she comes to stand right beside me at the front of the vehicle. She leans against the metal fender, looking down at me with those sharp, perceptive eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn’t I be?" I bite back smoothly.