Ruth’s POV
Marcus said it would be different this time, just the three of us. No pressure, no tension. A casual dinner, like we weren’t standing on the remains of something that had already cracked.
I didn’t believe him, but I went anyway. Emmett didn’t ask me to. He only said Marcus wouldn’t stop bringing it up. I think he was hoping if I agreed, Marcus would finally shut up. I wasn’t so sure.
The house looked exactly like it did the first time. Neat to the point of unnatural. That curated, hollow quiet that always made my skin tighten. Everything in its place, even the wine glasses already waiting on the kitchen counter. Marcus greeted me like he always did, all warm eyes and practiced charm, asking how my week had been like he hadn’t been the reason it nearly broke me. He handed me a glass of wine before I answered. I didn’t drink it.
Emmett stayed close, not quite touching me but never more than a few feet away. He didn’t speak much, just watched. Watched Marcus, watched me, and watched the space between us like something might crawl out of it if he let it grow too wide.
Marcus set his wine glass down and leaned forward slightly, flashing that easy smile I no longer trusted. “I read that write-up in Art & Form. They called your last series ‘a visceral study in controlled chaos.’” His eyes flicked to mine. “Pretty intense stuff.” I didn’t answer. Just cut into the overcooked chicken like it had personally offended me.
“You know, I actually recognized the brushwork. The strokes in Fever Bloom, that layering technique? You used something similar in that gallery back in Venice, didn’t you?”
My hand paused, then resumed. “I never mentioned Venice to you.”
He laughed, light and casual. “You didn’t have to. I’ve kept up. Your style’s changed, but the soul’s still there. Dark. Beautiful. A little... broken.” Beside me, Emmett’s jaw ticked.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine. “Ruth, you’ve always painted from pain. That’s what makes it magnetic.”
“Don’t do that,” I said quietly.
“Do what?”
“Say my name like it means something to you.”
He smiled again, slower this time. “I’m just saying I’ve always appreciated your work. Even before the critics did.”
“You’re quoting reviews like you wrote them.”
“Maybe I should have,” he said, grinning. “I probably understand your work better than half those columnists. I was there for the early versions, remember? The rough ones.” I set my fork down and stared at my plate.
Emmett’s voice cut through the tension. “She doesn’t need you to interpret her.”
Marcus raised a brow. “I’m just admiring.”
“Feels more like rehearsing,” I said flatly. “Everything you say tonight sounds like it’s been practiced in front of a mirror.”
He gave a low chuckle. “Maybe I wanted to get it right this time.”
My skin prickled. The way his voice dropped on that last word sent a chill across my shoulders. Emmett’s hand brushed my knee under the table, subtle, grounding. I didn’t touch it.
Marcus took another sip of wine. “You still use red like it’s a weapon.”
I picked my fork back up and stabbed the vegetables. “That’s because it is.”
I barely touched my food. Emmett didn’t eat much either. I don’t think he even realized it. He was too busy cataloging every shift in my face, every flicker of discomfort I couldn’t hide. Marcus noticed too. He always noticed. He smiled through it like he was enjoying the tension. Like he liked knowing I couldn’t escape without making a scene.
When dinner ended, Marcus stood and stretched, rubbing his temples like the night had worn him out. He said he was turning in early. Long week, headache, nothing new. Then he clapped a hand on Emmett’s shoulder and told him to enjoy the rest of the night, and as he passed me, he winked. That was it, that was the last thing I needed.
Emmett fell asleep on the couch around midnight. He’d been quiet for hours, barely glancing at the television he wasn’t watching. I sat beside him, pretending to scroll through my phone. My mind was somewhere else entirely. Spinning, locking into place.
I waited. I gave it time. I needed to be sure he was fully out before I moved. His breathing deepened, his arm slid off the back cushion. His body went slack. I slipped into the kitchen without turning the lights on. I already knew where to look. I’d watched Marcus open that drawer earlier, just before dinner. The knife was longer than I expected. Thinner too. But it felt light. Easy to carry. Easier to use than I thought it would be.
The hallway was cold and quiet. I didn’t bother putting on shoes. My feet made no sound against the tile. Every step felt deliberate. I kept my hand tight around the handle and my breath low in my throat. The door creaked when I pushed it open, not loud enough to wake him, just enough to make my pulse spike.
Moonlight cut across the room, washing the bed in soft blue. He was on his back, one hand resting on his chest, mouth slightly open. His face looked softer in sleep, almost peaceful. The kind of peace he didn’t deserve. Not after everything he’d taken. Not after what he tried to become to me.
I stood over him and raised the knife. My hand shook, not from fear, not from guilt. Something else, something colder, sharper, something I couldn’t name, but I recognized it. It lived in my chest now. It had been there ever since I realized the only way out of this mess was to carve the end myself.
Then a hand closed around my wrist. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even turn around. His grip was strong but steady, not violent. I knew who it was without looking. Emmett, of course it was him. I didn’t hear him get up. Didn’t feel him behind me until it was too late.
I didn’t move, or pull away. My eyes stayed locked on Marcus’s sleeping body, the knife still suspended just inches above his heart. I could feel Emmett’s breath behind my shoulder. Like he already knew what I’d come in here to do. He didn’t say anything, neither did I.
We just stood there. Me, frozen with the blade still raised. Him, holding my hand back like he didn’t trust me not to finish it. And he was right not to.