MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 82 - Eighty-Two: Facing Trauma and... Jealousy?
//CLARA//
I wasn’t surprised to find Aunt Cornelia in the foyer. She stood beneath the chandelier like a spider in the center of its web, her hands folded, and her mouth set in a line so thin it was practically invisible.
She had been waiting. She wanted us to know that nothing happened in this house without her awareness.
"And where," she began, her voice dripping with ice, "do you two think you are going at an hour that would make a common streetwalker blush?"
I did not have the energy for a battle. I did not have the patience for her games. Oliver was in a cell, and every minute we wasted was another minute he spent paying for a crime he did not commit.
"Casimir is accompanying me to the warehouse," I said, keeping my temper in check. "We need to find evidence that will help clear Mr. Whitfield’s name."
Aunt Cornelia’s face went from pale to a mottled, furious red.
"Have you lost your mind?" Her voice cracked like a whip. "Have you forgotten what happened the last time you went to that place? You were taken. You were nearly killed. This is purely nonsense, Eleanor. You must go back to your room at once."
I wanted to scream that her concern wasn’t concern at all. It was just a desperate, clawing attempt to regain the control that was currently slipping through her fingers like sand.
But I didn’t argue. I didn’t waste my breath defending myself. I just turned my head and looked at Casimir, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.
Your move, big guy.
Casimir let out a low, guttural groan, dragging a palm over his face. I could practically see the gears grinding as he realized he was the meat in a very angry stone sandwich.
"Aunt Cornelia, we do not have time for this." I could feel the exhaustion in his tone. "It is necessary. The matter is... legal. And urgent."
"She is a young lady of breeding, Casimir! She cannot be seen gallivanting through the streets at night—not even with you."
Aunt Cornelia’s pitch hit a high note that probably had every dog in the neighborhood howling.
"You might be her guardian, but do not forget that you two share no blood relation. It is highly, highly inappropriate."
I swallowed the urge to laugh. Inappropriate. She had no idea how I had ridden her nephew’s face like a fucking horse. The word would not even be enough to cover it.
I bit my tongue. Hard. Anything to keep from telling the old bat exactly where she could shove her opinions on propriety.
"Would you prefer to explain to the magistrates why you obstructed an investigation, Auntie?" His voice turned to a silky threat. "I would hate for your name to appear in their records. It would be such a... stain."
Aunt Cornelia’s mouth opened, closed. Opened again. I half expected a moth to fly out.
Yeah, bitch. I would gladly see you rot behind bars instead of Oliver.
Casimir grabbed my elbow and practically threw me out the door. I did not complain. The woman was about to combust, and I did not want to be within blast radius.
The carriage ride was a different kind of torture.
Every turn of the wheels felt like it was pulling me closer to a black hole. I closed my eyes, trying to keep the images at bay. I felt my chest tighten, the memory already clawing at the edges of my consciousness.
"Clara."
His voice cut through the fog. I turned my head. In the darkness, I could only make out the gleam of his eyes.
"You need not speak of it," he said softly. "But if you find yourself unable to enter that place, I will go alone. You have only to say the word, and I will spare you the sight of it."
It was a ridiculously generous offer, especially coming from a man who once tried to put me in a cage and call it for my own protection.
I looked out the window, at the looming silhouette of the warehouse and considered it.
"I’m going in," I forced a smile, trying to calm my nerves. "But I’m going to need your hand."
He gave it without a word. His fingers folded around mine, chasing all the inhibition starting to gnaw my gut.
I took a deep breath and squeezed Casimir’s hand. With him, I wasn’t just a victim going back to a crime scene. I was a woman on a mission.
Inside, the darkness swallowed me whole. My throat closed. My pulse hammered. Every instinct screamed at me to run. To run like hell to the opposite direction.
It’s too dark. Too dark. I can’t—I can’t—
"Breathe, Clara."
Casimir must have felt me tense up. His thumb started rubbing slow circles over my wrist, pulling me back from the edge. "Just breathe."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. It did not matter that he could not see it. I needed to do it for myself.
"The gas lamps," he said, sounding a little bit weird, like the shadows were literally eating his voice before it could reach the ceiling.
He let go of my hand for a moment. I felt the loss instantly, my fingers curling around thin air like a kid losing a balloon.
Then light flared, cutting through the dark. And I could breathe again.
The table. There it was, exactly where I remembered it. Oliver’s sketches were still scattered across the top in total abandonment. The chair was upturned, looking like a corpse.
I moved toward it without even thinking. The lamplight swung back and forth as Casimir followed behind me.
"This was the last place I had the letter. I was standing right here when I heard someone... when I felt someone was watching me."
I gestured vaguely toward the floor in a half-assed motion you make when you’re trying to describe a crime scene without actually saying the words.
I dropped to my knees, ignoring the fire in my foot and the part of my brain that was already mourning the state of my gloves. The wood was oily. The dust was ancient. I found something sticky and decided not to look at it. Also, no letter.
"There’s nothing," I sighed, and I hated how much despair leaked into my voice.
"Move."
He said it with so much authority that I obeyed without question, shuffling sideways on my knees. He set the lamp on the table and lowered himself with that effortless, disciplined grace that usually makes me want to roll my eyes.
The minutes started to stretch, and the tiny thread of hope I’d been hanging onto began to fray. The trauma was starting to claw at the back of my throat again.
What if it wasn’t here? What if some rat had dragged it off, or Silas had doubled back for it? What if we’d come back to this hellhole for nothing?
His hands reached under the table’s edge, probing the narrow gap between the floor and the wooden frame. I watched the look of concentration settle over his face.
Then... a sound. The beautiful, distinct crinkle of paper.
Casimir let out a soft breath. He withdrew his hand, and there it was. Crushed, dusty, and half-folded in his fingers.
I grabbed it and unfolded it with shaking fingers. I let out a breath so deep I felt it in my bones.
"Found you, you little prick," I whispered.
I handed the letter back to him. He was sweating, disheveled, and looked like he had been rolling around in a boxing ring instead of a dusty warehouse. It was, unfortunately, disgustingly, the hottest thing I had ever seen.
God, how I wanted to lick the salt off his temple.
Great, Clara. Control your libido. Priorities, please.
He smoothed the paper out on the scarred table, his expression darkening as he scanned the forged script.
"This is the evidence. It can be examined, compared, verified, and set Mr. Whitfield free."
I pushed myself up, then felt a sudden rush of vertigo as blood drained from my head and the world did its best impression of a tilt-a-whirl.
Casimir caught my elbow. So casually efficient. As if he had spent his entire life catching damsels in distress. Like the way he had worked through the ribbons of my corset a hundred times before.
Now that I think of it.
I had asked him then. How many women he had undressed. He had been vague. Now I wanted names. And possibly to throw things.
I suddenly, violently hated the idea of him touching anyone else. Caring for anyone else. Steadying anyone else’s elbow.
The realization hit me like a brick to the face.
Really? Jealousy? Now?
