Burn Me Once Burn With Me (Ruby Grayson) novel Chapter 48

At this moment, he found himself hesitating, uncertain.

After searching for so long, was the person he'd been looking for really just behind that door?

His footsteps, though he tried to soften them, still echoed dully against the polished wood floor—each step heavy, a mirror to his own pounding heart. The corridor was short, but every inch felt like he was crossing the span of years.

Finally, his long fingers wrapped around the doorknob, and with a gentle push, he eased the door open.

Instinctively, Cassian glanced at the window where faint moonlight spilled through. He remembered sitting restlessly in his car, eyes fixed on the darkened bedroom upstairs, catching a fleeting glimpse of a silhouette moving inside.

In that moment, a strange heat welled up in his chest—agitated and stifling, leaving his thoughts in disarray.

How could Cameron Lockridge have been allowed into her bedroom?

Cassian couldn't even tell what he was feeling anymore.

It wasn't until he found himself standing at Ruby's bedside, just as Cameron had, that he realized how loud the silence was. The gentle rhythm of her breathing filled the room.

His eyes didn't go to Ruby at first, but instead squinted toward the divorce papers lying on the nightstand.

Was that why Cameron Lockridge had come in—just to leave those papers?

Cassian tried to reason through it, though his gaze stubbornly refused to seek out the woman he'd been searching for all this time.

For the first time, he noticed how impossible it was to ignore the sound of another person's breathing.

At last, his eyes drifted, finally settling on the figure he hadn't seen in what felt like forever.

Moonlight painted Ruby's face in soft shades of gray, yet even in the dimness, he caught sight of a harsh shadow slashing across her once flawless cheek.

Cassian's eyes narrowed, disbelief tightening his features.

He remembered—no matter how bitter things had grown between them, he could never deny Ruby's beauty.

So how could there be a scar—an actual scar—marring that delicate face?

It was like a pure white camellia, its petals deliberately bruised and pressed, leaving it desolate and heartbreakingly fragile.

His heart clenched, as if a giant hand squeezed it, pressing down until pain radiated through his chest.

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