Ruby
I've seen cities burn.
Watched kingdoms rise and fall.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—fucks with my head like watching her laugh under the Italian sun.
Aveline.
She was barefoot again.
Spinning through wildflowers like a fever dream God forgot to cage.
And me?
I was standing there like a statue in black—untouchable, unreadable, arms crossed like I didn't want to touch the sky just to tuck her in it.
I brought her here to hide her.
That's what Eterna Notte is—a fortress.
But she makes even my damn fortress feel like a fairytale.
---
We'd been to Florence.
She cried in front of Botticelli's Primavera. Said it reminded her of something....
I just watched her.
The way her lips parted.
The way her fingers danced over each brushstroke.
Like she wasn't just looking at art… she was becoming it.
I've killed men with hands less steady than hers.
In Venice, I lost her for ten minutes.
Ten fucking minutes.
I swear my heart stopped beating.
When I found her?
She was smiling at a gondolier.
Nothing serious—but that didn't matter.
I grabbed her wrist.
Pulled her close.
Didn't care if the whole damn city watched.
She rolled her eyes. "Possessive much?"
Always.
Especially when you look like poetry I haven't bled for yet.
But I didn't say that aloud—instead: "Shut up. Stay close."
In Positano, she wore white.
A dress that barely kissed her knees.
Hair up. Freckles out. Bare shoulders made to ruin me.
I hate flower shops.
They're too colorful. Too delicate. Too… full of things that die if you touch them wrong.
And yet—here I was.
Walking beside Aveline while she practically danced toward a little stall wrapped in vines and lavender.
> "Ruby! Look!"
She pointed, excitement glowing like a second sun on her face.
"That one has pressed violets. And look—tiny dried roses. They smell like sugar."
I was barely listening.
Too busy watching the curve of her cheek. The wind pulling her dress like a secret. The way her fingers hovered over every bouquet like they deserved her gentleness.
She was barefoot in spirit, even when she wore heels.
> "Pick one," I muttered. "If it makes you happy."
She gasped, all dramatic like I just gave her the moon.
"Wait really? You won't stop me?"
> "Just don't expect me to help you pick daffodils, Rabbit."
She laughed and skipped over to the stand, the flowers wrapping around her like they missed her.
I stayed a few steps back, arms crossed. Sunglasses on. Mafia aura activated. You know the vibe.
And then—
This old Italian woman—had to be late 70s, maybe older—waddled over.
Apron tied like she ran the whole damn village. Wrinkles smiled before her mouth did.
She looked at Aveline, then at me. Her gaze softened like melted honey.
> "È tua moglie?"
(Is she your wife?)
Her voice was gentle. Not nosy. Just… kind. Real.
She's the owner of that little flower shop her looks were telling me.
I paused. Glanced at Aveline, still twirling a sunflower like it was a crown.
> "Sì," I replied. (Yes.)
No hesitation. Just truth.
The woman smiled, a slow, knowing one. The kind that carried too many memories.
> "È molto bella," she said. "Non lasciare che il suo sorriso svanisca."
(She's very beautiful. Don't let her smile fade.)
I didn't answer. Couldn't.
My throat was tight. Not from emotion—no, I don't do that. It was from the weight of those words.
Don't let her smile fade.
I looked at Aveline again—sunlight in her hair, bouquet in her hands, barefoot heart in a battlefield—and thought...
What if I already had?
The old woman patted my arm before walking away.
Like she didn't just drop a damn nuke on my chest.
Aveline turned to me, beaming.
> "Can we take this one? It smells like weddings and cinnamon."
I shrugged. "You're the one with a nose for sugar."
She leaned closer. "You okay?"
> "Yeah." I changed the subject fast.
"Let's get lunch. You said you wanted limoncello, right?"
She gave me a look.
The I-know-you're-deflecting-but-I'll-let-you-win-this-time look.
> "Fine. But next time… you're picking the flowers."
God help me.
She bought the bouquet. Pressed it to her chest like it was a letter from the past.
She didn't know what the lady said.
Didn't know how it wrecked me quietly.
But I did.
And as we walked through the streets of Positano, hand brushing mine, sunlight bouncing off every wall—
I swore to myself:
If I have to kill kings, burn cities, drown oceans—
I'll do it.
Just to keep that smile on her face.
Even if mine disappears in the process.
---
Later we had dinner on the cliffside.
She talked about her uni life like it was a world I couldn't touch.
But I was there—fork in one hand, wine in the other—listening.
Actually listening.
Like her voice was the only sound that mattered.
That night, she fell asleep before me.
So I traced her spine with my fingers.
Counted every bump.
Memorized it like a kill list.
And whispered to the moon:
> "If anyone hurts her...
I'll paint Italy red."
---
Back at Eterna Notte, I took her to the lavender field.
No one knew it existed—not even Adam.
My mother loved that place. It still smells like her.
But when Aveline walked through it?
Barefoot. In silence.
She didn't just walk in my memories…
She healed them.
She picked a lavender sprig.
Tucked it behind my ear.
Smiled like I wasn't the devil.
I didn't stop her.
---
I'm dangerous.
I know that.
I've done things no heaven could forgive.
But when she looks at me with those soft eyes?
I feel like maybe…
Just maybe…
I could be something better.
Not for the world.
Not for redemption.
But for her.
Only her.
> "She's sunshine.
And I've built a kingdom of shadows.
But every day she steps closer—
And I don't know whether I want to hold her forever…
Or run before she learns how to tame monsters like me."
I hadn't slept all night. I was just watching her.
And for the first time in months, I picked up my sketchbook.
I sketched her.
The way she actually is—the soft smile, the beautiful lips, the calm. The fragility wrapped in quiet strength.
She knows how to tame a monster without even trying.
Obsidian—my beast of a horse—never bowed for anyone.
Except her.
Even he knows—she's not just someone in Eterna Notte.
She's Aveline Sun—wife of a beast.
Fearless.
I finished her sketch after an hour, highlighting every detail.
I stood up slowly and kissed her forehead.
Tucked her hair behind her ear.
My fingers trailing down her cheek, featherlight.
She woke up early and saw me there.
She smiled, curving beside me.
> "Why are you watching me like that?" she teased.
> "Because you're beautiful. I can't help it," I replied.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep.
It was raining again.
Not a soft drizzle.
Not a poetic sprinkle.
This was Eterna Notte rain—wild, lashing, raw.
I liked it that way.
I went to the garden.
My boots were soaked. I hadn't bothered with a coat.
My shirt clung to me like consequence.
Still—I didn't move from the garden steps.
> "Ruby?"
Her voice behind me was hesitant. Soft. Like maybe if she whispered loud enough, the storm would take it for her.
I didn't turn.
> "You'll get sick," she said again, like the rain would ever dare touch me.
> "Good," I muttered, "then maybe I'd finally feel something."
She didn't laugh. She didn't call me dramatic.
She just… walked closer.
I felt her before I saw her—her presence a warmth I didn't ask for but always noticed.
> "You didn't come back to bed," she whispered.
> "Didn't plan to."
> "You've got blood under your fingernails again."
That made me smirk.
I held my hands out, palm up. The rain ran down the lines like rivers through canyons.
My knuckles were still bruised. Millet hadn't begged enough.
> "Ruby," she said my name like a warning. Or a plea. Or a prayer.
> "I told you," I murmured, "this world can't have both things. Me and softness don't fit in the same goddamn sentence."
> "Then let me be the comma between them."
God. This girl.
Her mouth full of poetry. Her arms full of fire.
I turned to her, finally.
She was shivering. Her cheeks red from the cold.
She should've stayed inside.
She should've stayed away.
But she didn't. She never did.
I stepped closer. Water dripping off my lashes. My voice low.
> "You think you know me?"
> "No," she said. "But I want to."
I gritted my jaw.
> "You think I'm not dangerous?"
> "I think you are. I just don't think you'd ever hurt me."
That stopped me.
I stepped even closer. Our noses almost touching.
Her hand came up, brushing blood off my jaw. The kind of touch that could unbuild empires.
> "Go back inside," I said, voice tight.
> "No."
> "You think I won't snap?"
> "Snap. I'm not scared."
We stood there.
Rain dripping down our skin. Silence thick between us.
I felt like I was about to do something stupid. Something soft. Something real.
So I opened my mouth. And let the beast speak.
> "You're with a monster," I said quietly, eyes fixed on hers. "Aren't you scared of me?"
She didn't move. Didn't blink. Just looked at me like I was poetry written in the dark.
> "The person I am—do you get it, Aveline?"
"I could kill anyone. I have. I don't flinch, I don't regret. You think I'm cold now? You haven't seen what I look like when I'm feral."
She was still looking at me.
> "I'm not just cold, Rabbit. I'm dangerous. I'm the nightmare people have before they pray."
My throat burned. My jaw clenched. My voice? It broke a little.
> "I'm the kind of monster people make movies about. And you—you're standing here like I won't hurt you by breathing."
I took a step back. Hands clenched. A storm tightening in my chest.
> "So why… why aren't you scared?"
She didn't speak.
She just reached up—soft, sure—and pressed her palm to my lips.
Warm. Steady.
Like she was silencing not my words, but the demon clawing beneath my ribs.
> "Don't," she whispered, eyes locked with mine.
"Don't say it. Not to me."
I froze.
Her hand still on my mouth. Her other hand sliding up my arm, grounding me. Unarming me.
> "I don't care if you're a monster," she said, voice so calm it made my knees weak.
"Because you never scare me."
> "You never will."
I gripped her wrist, not to push it away… but to hold onto her.
> "But I could ruin you," I rasped into her palm.
> "Then ruin me," she whispered back, dropping her hand finally.
"But I'm not walking away."
The thunder cracked above us.
I blinked. My eyes burned.
And maybe, for the first time in years, I felt something real—
Fear.
That one day she'd leave.
Because if she ever did, I wouldn't survive it.
So I pulled her closer.
Arms tight. Her warmth seeping into my soaked bones.
Her heartbeat too close. Her breath too sweet.
And all I said was,
> "I'm trying not to fall, Aveline."
She leaned up, brushing her lips against mine with the gentlest smile, and whispered,
> "Then stop trying."