RUIN: A M/M Romance Novel

by Daya Daniels

  STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.

  “RYKER!” Francis’ voice booms.

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, Father!”

  “Get your ass in my office in five. I need to speak with you.”

  “Okay, Father, I’ll be there in a second!”

  “NOW!” Francis yells.

  Griffon flinches…as do I…on the inside.

  STOMP. STOMP. STOMP.

  Finding a spot to sit on the edge of the bed, Griffon nods.

  “I’ll be right back.” I twist the door handle and pull it open, revealing the hallway just outside that is now dark. “As soon as I get back we’re leaving.”

  And I’m never coming back here, ever.

  ~

  I push the door open to find Francis sitting behind his desk. “Yes, Father.”

  His gaze fixes on me. His mouth is set in a firm line and his mood is unstable as it always is. I pay it no mind. I’m here to find out what the fuck he wants and then I’m gone.

  The next time I see Francis, I’ll be twenty-one years old.

  I move farther into the room.

  The fireplace to my left crackles. The orange flames grow higher and higher and cast a shadow just behind where Francis sits. The light from it bounces off the Patrimony Traditionelle on his wrist that costs more than the average person’s home.

  I massage the back of my neck. “You didn’t have to be so rude to my boyfriend.”

  He smiles. “Your boyfriend?”

  “Yes, we’ve been seeing each other for a while now. He isn’t going anywhere.”

  Francis stands and in less than a few strides, he’s standing right in front of me, towering over me, intimidating me.

  What’s fucking new?

  “This is my house, Ryker.” He pokes me in the chest, nudging me back an inch. “And you are my son.” His blue eyes are ablaze. “And you live under this roof, therefore my rules apply.”

  “I want to move out.”

  He laughs.

  “And Mother needs to get treatment.” My eyes narrow.

  Francis chuckles. “There’s nothing wrong with your mother.”

  My brows arch. “Like there’s nothing wrong with you?”

  He laughs for about two seconds, then his hand is wrapped around my throat, stopping my air. I choke for it. Then, I breathe through my nose as my fingers dig at his hand.

  He grits his teeth. “My father wasn’t a nice man.” I guess it explains why your brother is an asshole too! He squeezes tighter. “But I’m nicer than he ever was. I take care of you, Ryker Solomon Benedict.”

  I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

  I suck in more air through my nose when he squeezes my throat tighter.

  “I expect for you to give me the respect I deserve.” Sweat beads along his forehead, and in an instant, I’m swallowed up by that familiar scent again—breakfast and wood.

  “How can I respect a man who only hurts me?” I grit out. “And who hurts my mother who needs help? A man who is the direct cause of my drug addiction?” A tear slips from my right eye, hot and angry, it careens down my cheek.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.

  “I’ve come to realize, Father, that a man who truly deserves respect, doesn’t have to ask for it.”

  He squeezes tighter and tighter.

  Because I am nothing.

  But a lowly subject.

  Here to serve and obey and worship the motherfucking king.

  He flashes his pearly white caps.

  Sadistic glee is in this bastard’s features.

  He is proud of the man he has become.

  Would he not stumble? Would he not fall down? Since pride must have a fall and break the neck of that proud man that did usurp his back—Richard II.

  My vision blurs as my brain is starved for oxygen.

  I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

  Laughing, he tugs at the buckle on his belt with his free hand. “I don’t have to ask you for anything, you little shit. You must remember that.”

  I

  hope

  you

  fucking

  die.

  GRIFFON

  I SIT IN THE bay window with Richard II in my hands, flipping through the pages.

  The moonlight shines down on the city.

  It’s beautiful.

  I yawn then realize the time.

  Ryker’s been gone for a little longer than expected.

  My eyes fix on the words on the pages.

  Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee, to make the earth proud with kissing it—Richard II.

  It is from an act in the story where Henry and Richard meet. Henry gets on his knees and Richard says he should get up and stop pretending he’s not there to take the throne.

  Because kings know when their crown is about to be snatched away.

  I do wonder if Francis suspects his is about to go soon…

  Throughout the story, one of Richard’s biggest problems is that he believes that kings should inherit the crown from their fathers and they have the divine right to rule as ordained by God.

  Henry, however, believes that the right to rule is a privilege granted to him by his subjects, which means the right to be king depends on whether a man is a good leader or not.

  I exhale when I think about Ryker.

  He is a good boy-man with a big broken heart.

  He has earned the right to everything he seeks for himself.

  I’d follow him to the end, whether he ruled in heaven or hell.

  I will always worship him.

  Standing, I head across the room and keep my footsteps light.

  Music hits my ears.It’s coming from the dining room. Erik Satie’s “Once Upon A Time in Paris” floats around the apartment. The classical tune is calming. When I make it to the dining room to peek in, I find Bella sitting at the table, still drinking.

  Tears pour from her eyes as she sobs about God knows what.

  On second thought, I think there might be a lot around this place to cry about… Her hair is out from its updo and mascara stains the apples of her cheeks as it heads south from her eyes.

  My brows knot.

  She weeps, seemingly unaware that I’m standing a few feet away.

  Then her eyes close for just a second but I think she’s still awake.

  She’s in some sort of trance.

  I expect her to jump up at any moment, arms extended and chant, “Take me to your leader…Take me to your leader…”

  I shudder at the thought.

  Creeping my way through the rest of the apartment, I find Trinity in the kitchen tidying up. Either she doesn’t realize that Bella is still in the dining room sobbing or she doesn’t care or that it’s all such a usual occurrence that it doesn’t even cause her to blink twice.

  When I round a corner, I stumble back and press my hand to the center of my chest when another painting of a clown fills my vision. This one is even scarier since it’s smiling, showing its white teeth. Concealed in its right hand, is a meat cleaver.

  Alrighty then.

  With narrowed eyes, I examine the painting before walking away very slowly, fearing the goddamn thing will jump off the artwork and tenderize me.

  When I spin around, I almost crash into a mirror.

  I jump back.

  Then stand still and realize it’s one of those mirrors that makes you look fat. Peering closer at it, my width and height changes with each miniscule movement.

  It’s warped as shit.

  Like this fucking funhouse.

  I make my way down the hallway, keeping my footsteps light and my hand planted against the wall since its darker the farther I move along in this cemetery silence.

  I keep moving and narrow my eyes when I spot a slither of light coming from beneath the door at the end of this long hallway that smells of cedar.

  I almost open my mouth to call out Ryker’s name. Instead, I freeze.

  BANG.

  A moan.

&nbs
p; BANG.

  A groan.

  BANG. BANG. BANG.

  A whimper.

  My ears get hot. My heartrate rockets to panic level. My eyes skitter around.

  I move closer and reach out, pressing my hand to the cool wood.

  BANG. BANG. BANG.

  A grunt, followed by a wail, and another and another.

  A familiar sound.

  I wait.

  The grunting continues, loud and vigorous.

  More wailing.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t think.

  I stumble away from the door almost tripping over my feet.

  The sounds grow louder.

  The banging becomes relentless.

  Ecstasy erupts from behind the door. The rise and fall of moans, breaths, grunts.

  A tear slips from my eye, then another and another until my face is soaked in salty sadness. I make my way fast to the foyer, banging into things because I’m dizzy as fuck, whizzing by Trinity and not bothering to say “goodbye” or “thank you” for dinner.

  I’m out the door and flying down ten flights of stairs like I’m being chased by killer clowns from outer space. When I hit the last one, I explode through the double doors that lead to the street. The cool air whacks me in the face, chilling my skin but it does nothing to cool and calm my racing thoughts.

  Rough breaths leave my mouth and rip through the night air.

  My heart breaks and breaks and breaks for the boy I love.

  I squeeze my head with my hands and crane my neck up to the spectacular building in front of me—Ryker’s home—a penitentiary. A funhouse!

  Where he lives with his insane family…

  No.

  This is not a home.

  THIS-IS-A-HOUSE-OF-HORROR.

  I run for my motherfucking life!

  ~

  Crashing through the door of my apartment, I plant my back against the wall.

  Sweating. Breathing deep. Heart hammering.

  The sweet aroma of chicken cacciatore cooking fills my nostrils and Babbo banging around in the kitchen fills my ears.

  Chicken cacciatore.

  It was my mother’s favorite dish which is probably why Babbo won’t stop making it. I laugh a little, but it does nothing to calm the fire in my eyes and the severe ache in my chest.

  “That’s a good, good girl,” Babbo mumbles.

  Elsa barks.

  I round the corner and stop when I find three boxes stacked high marked: Giulia’s Things. My eyes narrow when I reach out and touch them, stunned.

  After ten years…he’s finally packing her things away.

  More tears fall from my eyes.

  And pride surges through me when I think of how badly I felt the need to use two hours ago. But still, I hadn’t. Even bumped into a guy I used to buy from on the street corner, who was selling baggies for fifty bucks a piece. I passed him by. Honestly, I ran.

  I bolted through the city, only resting on the subway and then when I got to my stop, I ran the rest of the way home.

  I wipe my tears as quickly as I can, but it isn’t efficient enough for how fast they fall. I stumble down the hallway and stand in the kitchen door.

  Babbo twists around to face me, a smile already on his face. “I thought that was—”

  I lean against the doorway, coating the wall with my sweat and tears.

  Elsa rushes to me, her sweet face peering up into mine.

  I manage a smile but it’s weak and pathetic, exactly like how I feel right now.

  “Griffon, stai bene, ragazzo mio? Are you okay, my boy?” He steps toward me with concern in his brown eyes and reaches out a hand, cupping my cheek.

  I shake my head rapidly finding no words.

  Babbo touches my other cheek, holding my head still, forcing me to face him.

  Crashing into his arms, I sob so hard it fucking hurts.

  I break down completely.

  Babbo holds me close and lets me cry ugly tears into his shoulder. “It will be okay, Griffon, I promise you.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

  He pats my back. “It’s okay.”

  I shake my head. “No, it isn’t. I never say the right words. I never tell you how much I love you. I never tell you anything at all. But I do. I love you so, so much.”

  Babbo smiles. “I know, Griffon. I know.”

  I weep.

  “Sometimes people don’t have to tell you they love you or how much…because you can feel it. I know you love me, Griffon. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” His eyes shine when he smiles.

  My chest shudders.

  Bone-shattering sobs rip from my soul.

  I cry for Ryker.

  I cry for me.

  I cry for us.

  “Cosa volete che faccia? What do you want me to do, Griffon?” Babbo holds me closer.

  “Voglio solo che tu mi mantieni. I just want you to hold me, Babbo.” I press my face into his soft sweater that must be about a million years old, appreciating the soft fabric against my skin. I know the sweater he’s wearing is likely something my mother bought him.

  And after a while all the pain and the sorrow leave me.

  Soon, it is only replaced with inconsolable rage.

  RYKER

  I DON’T KNOW WHAT time it is.

  Nor do I care.

  Steam floats around the bathroom in the low-lit space.

  My cellphone rests on the vanity. I check it four more times…nothing.

  And there’s nothing in reply to my text messages either.

  I wipe the mirror clean and look at myself where I stand only wrapped in a towel.

  Sucking in a few breaths, I run my fingers over the red marks around my neck.

  Picking up my phone, I tap out one last message to Griffon.

  Me: Stay away from me. I’m no good. I will only bring you pain.

  There’s no reply.

  I toss the phone across the marble countertop but not hard enough to break it.

  Yanking the drawer open, I rummage through everything in there. When I can’t find exactly what I’m looking for, I dump everything on the vanity.

  Frédéric Chopin’s “Nocturne E Flat Major Op. 9 No 2” drifts in here from the bedroom mixing with the steamy, rosemary- and vanilla-scented air.

  With my effort, tears spill from my eyes. I wipe them away frantically still searching through all the shit on the counter.

  That’s when I find it.

  A full baggie falls out of a box of Band-Aids.

  I hold on to the edge of the vanity with both hands, gripping so hard my fingernails almost pop off. I grit my teeth and stare at the baggie knowing everything in that bag will ease my pain at least for a little while.

  My heart jackhammers in my chest.

  Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

  And sweat slides down my temples, to my chin and down my neck.

  I let my tears fall.

  Reaching out, I knock over another box. Aftershave spills out on the countertop. Cotton balls go everywhere. And right next to the electric trimmer I haven’t used in a few days is a box of loose blades.

  I wipe my tears but it’s no use.

  I allow myself to sob for I don’t know how long.

  With a scream, I swipe the baggie off the counter because I hate it.

  I hate every single thing it’s done to me since we were first introduced.

  The powder billows up in the air and drifts to the floor like white nothingness.

  I instantly regret it.

  Right away I wonder if I could scoop it all back up and just do one-more-line.

  My hands find the edge of the vanity again.

  My head lowers and my back bows.

  I kick the cabinets exactly three times.

  I peer at myself in the mirror.

  Sad

  broken

  blue

  boy.

  Every scar on my wrists already says so.

  I deliver more ki
cks to the cabinets almost breaking my foot.

  Then, I heave for breath. Over and over I search for oxygen, but it isn’t enough.

  Disgust, shame, and confusion swim around in my brain as they’ve always done.

  I knock the box around and out falls a shiny razor.

  With shaky fingers I pick it up and stare at its sharp, perfect edges.

  I glance at myself in the mirror once more, right before I put the blade to my wrist. And before I can swallow or have a second thought, with the flick of my other wrist, I make light slices along my inner forearm.

  Cut. Cut. Cut.

  I gasp at the agony.

  Cut. Cut. Cut.

  I swallow back my screams.

  Blood. Blood. Blood.

  It leaves my skin in a red mist with every slice.

  The white porcelain sink becomes a pool of red.

  Groaning, I squeeze my wrist, hating and enjoying the pain at the same time.

  Because this is what I deserve.

  Agony. Defeat. Self-hatred.

  This is who I am.

  I sob.

  And I cut, cut, cut at my other wrist until the burn of the open wounds blaze through me like hellfire.

  I toss the blade in the sink beneath me and drop my arms down by my sides.

  Crimson pools around my bare feet like a fucked-up welcome mat.

  I slide down to the floor finding a comfortable spot in front of the vanity. I bang my head into the cabinets by tossing my head back, hoping to knock some sense into myself but I know it won’t come.

  Red.

  It’s all I see.

  Before I shut my eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RYKER

  A WEEK LATER…

  HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY TO ME…

  It’s November.

  Fuck November.

  A pissed-off breath rushes from me.

  Now, I stand in the middle of an opulent and large corner office which occupies the fifty-fifth floor of a Wall Street locale.

  My head hangs low and my hands are shoved in my pockets.

  Griffon had officially been out of my life, as had Elsa.

  I miss them both so fucking bad.

  I hadn’t tried to contact him.

  What on earth would I even say?

  I clear my mind and focus on the situation unfolding in front of me.

  It’s been months since I’ve since my uncle Xavier. I imagined it would be this way, but I guess I hoped it wouldn’t be as fucked up as this is.