Ruin (Rhodes #1) by Rina Kent

                             The dimly lit dungeon room comes into view. A half-naked Mae sits on the bed.

                             The sight of her clothes— or the lack thereof— sends flowing heat into my veins. One half wants to see the rest of her skin. The other wishes to extract blood from it.

                             An empty tray of food lies at her side as her feet dangle over the edge. Her shoulders are pushed back, legs and knees straight. That determined expression has been plastered on her face ever since yesterday. She didn’t cry, scream, or kick the door. She has been calm. In a strange way.

                             What could she be thinking about?

                             Me. Or more precisely, the situation I put her into. Her mind must be wrapping around the reality of things, crowding with options to escape this.

                             As if on cue, she hops off the bed and paces the room in hasty steps. Back and forth. Like a caged mouse. Her arms wrap around her waist, and she rubs the bare skin of her back as much as she can reach.

                             She’s cold.

                             My freezing fingers twitch reminding me she’s not alone in that. Only a terrace’s balcony is different than a dungeon.

                             Mae puts the tray on the floor. Her fingers tug on the mattress’ cover and pull it with a force that trips her and almost causes her to fall.

                             ‘Safe.’ Mae’s lips read.

                             I couldn’t turn the volume on in such a place, so I’ll have to put my lips’ reading skills into use.

                             She wraps the sheet around her body, the white cloth serving as a ghost’s halo.

                             Her mouth blows air into her palms as she resumes her pacing. This time, her eyes dart around the room, assessing every stone, every corner, and every tile of the floor. Her concentrated gaze stops now and then. Her brows furrow, her lips pout, then she shakes her head in obvious dismissal.

                             Hell. Her features are so expressive, it’s almost unbelievable.

                             When her observation— or whatever she’s doing— is over, one of her hands keeps the sheet in place while the other runs along the walls as if looking for a secret passageway.

                             Mae’s fingers reach one of the doors. She stops for several beats, eyes narrowing before she pulls at the small latch with her free hand. When that doesn’t work, she uses both hands, letting the cover fall to the floor. She then places a leg to the wall and pulls. The pale skin of her thigh distracts me, but I rip my gaze away and refocus on her reddening face, and gritted teeth.

                             After several moments, she loosens her hold with a frustrated stomp.

                             Well, she’s doing it the wrong way.

                             ‘Why. Don’t. You. Open?!’ She pounds the metal between every word.

                             The door swings open. She jumps back like a frightened kitten, her expression morphing into pure horror.

                             Maybe not enough horror.

                             Like any kitten, curiosity gets the best of her. With tense footsteps and spooked posture, she dips her head inside.