Just enough for me to see the sharp edge of his profile, the cut of his jaw, and the way the city lights kissed his skin but never melted the ice beneath.
And that was when I felt the true meaning of ruin.
Not in fire and fury, but in the quiet devastation of looking at a man who could shatter me with nothing but a glance.
A man who carried the storm in his veins. Who wore power like a second skin.
A man who would break me apart with the same hands that would put me back together.
"Because you needed them," he said simply.
Something inside me twisted.
I hated that he could say things like that. Hated that he could do something so cruel and yet so unbearably kind in the same breath.
I hated that I believed him.
That maybe, just maybe, I did mean that much to him.
I swallowed, my voice quieter now. "You told my mother we were… together."
A slow smirk tugged at his lips. "Would you rather I tell her the truth?"
I clenched my fists. "You lied."
His gaze met mine fully now, and for a moment, I swore I forgot how to breathe.
"Did I?"
He pushed off the window, stepping toward me.
The warmth in my stomach flared into something else entirely.
Something dangerous.
Something inevitable.
"I don't lie, Ptichka," he murmured, reaching out, fingertips grazing my cheek over the bandages. My pulse stuttered. He nearly lost it-like his grip tightening just a little too much, his thumb brushed over my lips before he pulled away.
I wanted to shove him away.
I wanted to pull him closer.
I wanted-
I didn't know what I wanted.
But I knew one thing.
Judas Romanovski was going to ruin me.
And maybe… he already had.
For a moment, we just stood there.
Him watching me. Me watching him.
And in the silence, in the space between our breaths, there was something unbearable.
I could feel it crackling in the air. A storm waiting to shatter the world between us.
Judas was close now-too close. I could see the way his fingers curled into his palms like he was holding himself back. Like he ached to touch me but wouldn't allow himself the indulgence.
But his eyes? His eyes devoured me.
Like I was something sacred. Like he was something starving.
I hated that look. Hated the way it made my ribs tighten, how it made me feel like I was standing on a ledge, waiting-wanting-to fall.
I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palm. Why? Why did he bring my mother here? Why did he bring Mikhail? Why did he keep twisting the knife into my soul with one hand while cradling my heart with the other?
"Say something," I whispered falling apart with everything I had.
Judas tilted his head, eyes burning into mine. "What do you want me to say, Ptichka?" His voice was quiet, but it echoed inside me, reverberating through my bones.
I sucked in a sharp breath, but it didn't help. Nothing would help-not when he was standing this close. Not when his scent wrapped around me, thick with the ghost of something forbidden.
My throat felt tight. My skin itched. I wanted to crawl out of my own body, out of this aching, suffocating thing inside me that wouldn't let me go.
So I did the only thing I could.
I hurt myself.
Before I could think-before I could stop-I dug my nails harder into my palm, pressing until I felt a sharp sting and wet warmth. Good. At least pain made sense. At least pain was something I could control.
Judas's jaw ticked. His entire body went still.
And then-
A low, vicious growl tore from his throat.
The sound made my stomach drop.
And in the next second, he moved.
Fast. Too fast.
His hands seized my wrists, prying my fingers open. I gasped, trying to yank away, but his grip was firm, his touch burning.
His eyes fell to my palm.
His lips parted, and something dark passed over his face.
His thumb swiped over the crescent-shaped wounds, over the tiny beads of red blooming in my skin, and his breathing turned ragged.
"You really think this will help?" His voice was a blade-sharp, raw, furious.
I turned my face away, but he wouldn't let me.
One of his hands left my wrist and curled around my chin, forcing me to look at him.
"Answer me," he demanded lethally.
I swallowed hard. "It's the only thing I can control."
A muscle feathered in his jaw. His grip tightened-but just for a second-before he exhaled sharply and pulled me forward.
I barely had time to react before he gathered me in his arms.
I gasped.
My feet left the ground for a brief moment before he set me down gently onto the chair beside us. And then-before I could do anything-he dropped to his knees in front of me.
The world tilted.
Judas Romanovski, the Judas Romanovski, was kneeling at my feet.
But there was no surrender in the gesture. No weakness.
Just him.
Just the unbearable weight of his presence, of the way his hands cupped my injured palm with something dangerously close to reverence.
I wanted to cry.
So I did.
Tears spilled before I could stop them, hot and bitter.
"Why?" My voice cracked. "Why are we like this, Judas?"
His hands froze.
I sucked in a breath, shaking my head. "Why does it have to be like this? Why couldn't you have met me somewhere else, somewhere better? Why couldn't you have-" I cut myself off, chest rising and falling too fast, too hard.
Judas didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
And then, finally-
He spoke.
"Because men like me don't get to have things like you."
His words hit me like a blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
I shook my head, blinking through my tears. "Judas-"
"But I take them anyway."
A shiver ran down my spine.
His grip tightened around my hand-not enough to hurt, but enough to hold.
"That's the truth, Ptichka." His voice dropped to something raw, something terrible. "If I had met you in another life, I wouldn't have been able to stay away from you. I wouldn't have been able to stop myself from wanting you, from ruining you. The only difference is-"
His lips ghosted over my knuckles.
A whisper of contact.
A barely-there sin.
"You would have loved me for it."
A sob wrenched from my throat, but Judas was already moving, already standing, already looking down at me with eyes that held the weight of everythingI could never escape.
And I hated him for it.
And I hated myself more.
Because he was right.
In another life, I would have loved him.
But in this one?
In this one, he would destroy me.
And the worst part?
I was already letting him.
I should've pushed his hands away.
I should've slapped them off my lap, turned my back, and walked away before he could break me further. But I didn't. Because his touch-his warmth-felt like the only thing securing me.
His fingers were heavy where they rested, his palms broad, his touch possessive even in stillness. There was no force, no demand. Just weight. A silent claim, a quiet restraint.
Judas Romanovski wasn't a man who held back. Not for anyone. And yet, he did for me.
His thumbs brushed slow circles against my skin, as if mapping me out, as if reassuring himself that I was still here. That I was still breathing.
I should've pulled away. I didn't.
His head tilted slightly, dark lashes lowering as he exhaled. The movement was almost… regretful. As if he was coming to terms with something he didn't want to admit.
His voice was deep, weighted with something I couldn't name. Something dangerous.
"I almost lost you."
My stomach twisted. He lifted his gaze, and something inside me shattered.
I had never seen Judas look like this. Like the weight of the world was finally too much. Like he had spent a lifetime fighting a war and had just realized he was losing.
His grip tightened on my thighs, just a fraction, as if he could barely control himself.
"I thought-" He let out a slow breath, nostrils flaring, as if the words themselves burned. "I thought I'd never hear your fucking voice again. I'm lost, Ptichka. I don't know what I want anymore. One minute I want to destroy this whole fucking world, but the other," he shook his head as if he couldn't look into my eyes. "Other minute… I want to kiss you. I want to wreck you. I want to steal every breath from your lips until you don't remember what it feels like to hate me." His fingers brushed my thigh over the dress and he let out a shaky sigh. "And fuck, ptichka-I want you to want me back."
My throat constricted.
His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched as he lifted his head.
And then, like he couldn't stop himself, he gripped my chin. Tilted my face down to him, forcing me to meet his gaze.
God.
There was so much there. Too much.
Raw, unfiltered, unmasked emotion. Something I'd never saw.
"You haunt me, Ptichka." His voice was lower now, rougher, almost pained. "Every second, every breath-I can't escape you. And I don't fucking want to."
A sharp pang shot through my chest. I hated him. I did. But I also knew the truth.
I haunted him because he haunted me.
"Then why do you hurt me?"
His entire body stilled.
The air grew thick, his hand tightening just slightly, just enough to make my pulse jump. Not enough to hurt. Never enough to hurt.
Then, slowly, his fingers loosened, and he sighed.
"I don't know how to love without destroying."
Love.
A truth he had never spoken aloud.
A truth I had always known. Or I thought I knew.
I swallowed hard. "You don't get to decide that."
His eyes flashed.
He moved fast.
Faster than I could process.
One second, I was sitting stiffly in my chair, and the next, he had me trapped.
One hand braced against the armrest beside my head. The other gripping my thigh, hard.
Not hurting. Just holding.
Just reminding me that he was still here.
That he would always be here.
"I do," he murmured. "I do because I know myself, little bird. And I know what I am."
His nose brushed against mine. Not quite a touch, but close enough to ruin me.
"I am not a man you survive."
My breath hitched.
He was right.
Judas Romanovski was the kind of man who swallowed people whole. Who burned and consumed and left nothing behind but ashes.
I had been fighting him, resisting him, pushing him away- But I was already burning.
I sucked in a breath, hating the way my body betrayed me, hating the way I wanted to push into his touch instead of escape it. "Then why bring them here?" I whispered. "Why go this far?"
His throat bobbed.
His fingers flexed against my thigh.
Then, finally-finally-he admitted it.
"Because you needed them."
My chest ached.
Judas Romanovski didn't do things out of kindness. He didn't act without reason, without an endgame.
But this…
This wasn't strategy.
This wasn't about power, or control, or winning.
This was him giving me something.
This was him choosing me.
I sucked in a breath. "You shouldn't-"
He let out a sharp laugh. Humorless. Pained.
"Tell me something I don't know, Ptichka."
The nickname was soft. Devastating.
I clenched my fists. "If you care so much, then why-"
His hands moved again. Fast.
One moment, he was leaning over me. The next, he was gripping my wrist-right over the fresh wound I had given myself.
I gasped.
Not from pain. From the look in his eyes.
Something dark. Something furious. Something broken.
His nostrils flared. His fingers trembled.
Then, in one swift, fluid motion, he pulled me up and the next I was pulled onto his lap.
A sharp gasp left my lips as I found myself caged against him, his arms tight around my waist.
"You don't get to do that," he growled.
His hand covered my wound. Big, warm, unyielding. Protective.
I swallowed hard, trying to push against his chest. "Judas-"
His grip only tightened.
"You don't get to hurt yourself," he rasped, pressing his forehead to mine. His breaths were shaky now, uneven. Frantic. "Not when I'd burn the world to keep you safe."
A sharp sob lodged in my throat.
My fingers curled into his shirt, holding onto him the way he was holding onto me.
I was crumbling.
And for the first time-so was he.
My voice broke. "Why are we like this?"
His breath hitched.
His hands trembled against my back.
Then, finally, he shattered.
"I don't know." His voice was rough, hoarse, like he had been swallowing glass. "I don't fucking know."
Silence stretched between us.
Painful. Heavy.
I closed my eyes my heart aching as I opened my mouth, and without thinking I spoke. "Do you love me, Judas?"
His eyes twitched, but he didn't take them off. Instead he let them roam over my bandaged cheek, my trembling lips. My body chilled feeling the weight of him, the warmth of him, the inescapable reality of him.
"Love?" His voice was raw, jagged, like he was choking on the syllable. He let out a low, bitter chuckle. "What a fucking word."
My breath hitched, but I didn't look away. I couldn't.
His eyes-cold, endless-burned into me, tracing every wound, every mark he'd left. And then, softer this time, like a confession, he muttered, "If love means craving you like an addict, then yes. If it means waking up every goddamn day with the taste of your name in my mouth, then yes. If it means destroying myself just to keep you breathing-" He shook his head, jaw clenched, eyes dark with something devastating. "Then I have loved you in ways I don't know how to survive."
The words stole the air from my lungs.
His voice dropped lower, almost reverent. "But if love means being good to you, if it means setting you free…" He swallowed hard, eyes flickering to my lips before locking onto mine again. "Then I am the farthest thing from loving you."
A muscle in his jaw ticked. His hands curled into fists.
"Because I will never let you go. I don't know how to. I am selfish, ptichka, but when it comes to you, I am not sane. Never sane. Never rational. Never fucking reasonable." His voice was raw. "You think I don't know what I am? That I don't see the monster in the mirror?" He let out a low, bitter laugh. "I see him. I fucking live with him. And I know-if I were a better man, I'd let you go. But I'm not. I will never be."
He tilted my chin my, and for the first ever fucking time, I saw the paleness in his eyes becoming darker. "You are the only thing in this world that makes me feel human. And yet, I will ruin you before I ever let you leave." His fingers twitched, and then his voice dropped even lower. "So tell me, ptichka… is that love?"