Ruth’s POV
The moment I pulled my hand back from Marcus’, the air shifted. It wasn’t just colder, it was thinner, like the house had turned hostile, like the walls knew something they hadn’t before and now wanted me out.
Nobody spoke, the silence was heavy enough to crack bone. Then Emmett’s voice broke it. Calm on the surface, but threaded with something colder beneath. “You should go.”
Marcus didn’t argue. He looked at me, through me, with a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. It was the same expression I remembered from the dark. Like he was cataloging every part of me just for sport. No apology, no acknowledgment. Just the weight of knowing he’d seen me helpless once, and believed he still could.
The moment Marcus stepped out, the air in the house felt wrong. It didn’t settle or lighten, it thinned. As if his presence had infected something deeper than the floorboards, and now every breath I took in this space scraped against invisible walls.
I stood there, unmoving, until the soft echo of the closing door faded, and even then, I didn’t exhale. I couldn’t. I felt hollowed out, gutted, like someone had reached inside me and removed the part that believed I could ever be safe here.
Without thinking, I turned and walked toward the studio, my body moving before my mind could argue. I needed somewhere to hide. Somewhere that still felt like mine.
I didn’t hear Emmett follow, but I felt him. The weight of him clung to the doorway as I stepped inside, his energy crowding the space before he spoke. When he finally did, his voice was low, urgent, and too controlled. “What happened between you and him?” I didn’t respond. My hands were twitching at my sides, my fingers flexing like they couldn’t decide whether to curl into fists or reach for something that could anchor me. My back was to him, and I kept it that way, too afraid of what I’d see in his eyes if I turned around.
“I said, what did he do to you?” he pressed again, his tone sharpening like a blade against my skin. I closed my eyes, my heart pounding, still silent. When I didn’t answer, he stepped closer, and that was when the anger broke loose from my chest. I turned sharply, fury crackling in my voice before I even realized I was speaking. “You brought him into my house. You let him walk through the door like he belonged here. Like he wasn’t the man who destroyed me.”
Emmett’s expression barely moved, but his jaw tightened. He didn’t retreat. “I didn’t know what he was to you.”
“But you knew something,” I snapped, voice rising. “You knew there was something wrong, and you still brought him here. What did you think would happen? That I’d just welcome him? Shake his hand and thank you for the trauma?”
“I needed answers,” he growled, stepping closer. “You’re not the only one with ghosts, Ruth.”
My stomach twisted. “This isn’t about your ghosts.”
He stared at me for a long second. Then, his voice lowered again, steadier but darker.
“You’re hiding something from me. Don’t stand there acting righteous when you’ve been keeping things buried since the beginning.”
I backed away, but he followed. “I told you who I am. I told you what I’ve done. You think I don’t deserve the same from you, Ruth?”
“I don’t owe you anything,” I hissed, voice shaking but sure.
His hands shot forward and gripped my arms before I could move again. The grip wasn’t bruising yet, but it was firm enough to steal my breath. “Yes, you do.”
I stared up at him, my body stiff beneath his touch, blood roaring in my ears. I tried to yank free, but he didn’t let go. His expression had changed, something in it darker, tighter, like he was no longer fighting to stay composed. He stepped forward, pressing his mouth against mine in a kiss that wasn’t about connection or comfort. It was a warning. A demand. My back hit the wall hard, the impact jarring enough to rattle the shelves beside us. A glass jar fell and shattered, the scent of turpentine erupting into the air, sharp and chemical, mixing with the sweat on his skin and the fear rising in my throat.
Emmett’s hands shoved under my shirt, fingers bruising as they gripped and clawed at my skin. His mouth dragged down my neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. His breath was hot and furious against my ear.
“If you won’t talk,” he growled, “then I’ll tear the truth out of you.”
I stiffened, my breath caught. My heart pounded so hard it hurt. I should have screamed. I should have pushed him away. But I didn’t. My body reacted anyway. Heat rolled through me, twisted and wrong, shame clawed up my spine as he dragged his hand down my jeans and yanked them roughly down my thighs.
He shoved his fingers between my legs, not to tease but to claim. They moved with no softness, no patience, just raw, angry need. I gasped, half in shock, half in want, my knees buckled. He forced me to the floor, dragging me down by the waistband of my jeans. My knees smacked the hardwood. He pulled my underwear aside and pushed into me with no warning. I cried out, jaw clenched. It hurt, sharp and jarring.
He grunted. "You feel that? That’s mine. All of it."
He slammed into me again, rough, unrelenting. His hands bruised my hips. Each thrust was punishment. A demand. His chest pressed against my back, breath ragged in my ear.
"Tell me the truth," he growled. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, I didn’t speak. He slammed harder, the floor scraped my knees raw. Paint smeared across my stomach and breasts. I gripped the floor, the edge of a fallen canvas, but nothing held steady.
My body betrayed me again, shuddering under him, tightening around him. I hated it, I hated him. I hated how much I still needed him. He spilled inside me with a groan that sounded more like a snarl. Then silence, his weight slumped over me.
I didn’t move. He stayed there, breathing hard against the back of my neck. Whatever we had before, whatever I thought this was, was already broken. And now it was beyond repair.