MY RUIN: In Love With My Step-Uncle-Chapter 33 - Thirty-Three: The Civilized Night

//CLARA//

Dinner was a masterclass in awkward silence, the kind that makes you hyper-aware of every chew and swallow like you’re in a mukbang video you never agreed to star in.

Aunt Cornelia attacked her roast beef like it owed her money. Casimir studied his wine glass like it held the answers to a philosophy exam he forgot to study for. And me? I pushed food around my plate and counted the minutes until I could escape.

It was a lot of seconds.

Then the bitchy witch set down her fork dramatically.

"Bartholomew has arranged a promenade for you tomorrow. In the park."

I froze mid-chew, a piece of potato hovering tragically in my mouth.

Again?

The word screamed through my brain like a fire alarm. Didn’t we just do this? Didn’t he get tired of this?

I swallowed the potato down with a mouthful of wine that was absolutely not meant to be consumed like a shot of cheap tequila.

I looked at Casimir. He glanced at me, just a flicker and gone, and then returned to his wine glass like it held the meaning of life.

Nothing. No intervention. No rescue. Just that look that said don’t drag me into this, I’m already drowning.

I sighed dramatically, just the exact amount of rudeness I was allowed to employ.

"Of course, Aunt Cornelia. How lovely."

Aunt Cornelia’s eyes narrowed, suspicious of my sudden compliance but unwilling to question her good fortune.

"See that you behave appropriately. Bartholomew has been very patient with you."

I smiled my best porcelain doll smile, the one that said nothing while promising everything.

"I live to serve."

Casimir choked on his wine. Aunt Cornelia ignored him completely.

Later, alone in my room, I sat at my vanity and stared at Eleanor’s diary like it owed me money.

I turned it over in my hands, running my fingers along the spine, the edges, the worn leather cover.

Somewhere in this book was the secret that had ripped me out of my century and dropped me into this corseted nightmare.

I held it up to the candlelight. Nothing. I flipped through the pages, checking for hidden compartments, secret pockets, anything that might explain how paper and ink could bend time.

No magical stones. No glowing runes. No instructions from the universe about how any of this worked.

Just paper. Just ink. Just Eleanor’s careful handwriting, ending the day I arrived.

I sighed and stood up, crossing toward the bed when I heard it.

Footsteps.

Not from the hallway. From the terrace.

I froze.

The doors were wide open. I’d left it that way to let in the night air. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. This was exactly how people got murdered in every horror movie I’d ever watched.

I grabbed the nearest thing that could pass as a weapon—a heavy silver hairbrush from my vanity. Not exactly a baseball bat, but it had weight and I had aim.

I crept toward the terrace, my heart hammering, brush raised like I was about to bludgeon someone into next Tuesday.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

I swung.

A hand caught my wrist mid-arc, firm and unrelenting. I opened my mouth to scream—

"Don’t."

That infuriatingly familiar voice.

I lowered the brush and stared at Casimir, standing in my bedroom like he had every right to be there.

"You absolute bastard—" I hit him in the chest with the brush. Not hard. Just enough to make a point. "What the hell is wrong with you? I could have killed you!"

"With a hairbrush?"

"It’s solid silver! And I have excellent aim!" I hit him again, lighter this time. "You scared me half to death!"

He caught my wrist on the third swing and suddenly the room felt very small.

"My apologies." He sounded amused, and my entire lower body reacted in ways I refused to acknowledge.

I pulled my wrist free, and he didn’t fight it.

"You climbed through my terrace. In the dark. Like a very broody raccoon with a death wish. Why didn’t you just walk through the door like a normal person?"

He shrugged one shoulder casually. Like breaking and entering was a minor social faux pas.

"It would have invited questions. From the servants. From Aunt Cornelia." He paused, those gray eyes fixed on me. "I wanted to avoid the talk."

I crossed my arms, suddenly very aware that I was standing in front of him in nothing but a thin nightshift with my nipples peeking through. The cool air did nothing to stop the heat creeping up my neck and spreading across my chest.

"And you thought sneaking into my bedroom in the middle of the night was... what? Less scandalous?"

He didn’t answer. Just looked at me with those eyes that saw too much, that catalogued every detail. The swell of my suddenly interested breasts, the way my breath quickened, the pulse hammering in my throat.

"What do you want, Casimir?"

He stepped closer. Just one step. But it was enough.

"I thought about what you said. In the carriage."

I waited. My heart was doing something complicated in my chest.

"I’ll support your business. Your partnership with Whitfield." He said it like he’d rehearsed the words a dozen times in his head. "On one condition."

I raised an eyebrow, grateful for something to do with my face that wasn’t gaping like a fish.

"A condition?" I tilted my head, studying him. "Wait. Is this it? Is this the favor you’re cashing in? The big one I’ve been side-eyeing for weeks?"

I paused, genuinely confused. "Because I have to say, for a man who made it sound like I’d owe you my firstborn and possibly a kidney, this is disappointingly reasonable. I was expecting something involving handcuffs and a very long night."

His frown deepened. "No."

"No?" I parroted back at him. "What do you mean, no? You can’t just dangle an ominous favor over my head and then not use it. That’s like hidden fees, Casimir. All fine print and no substance."

"Not a favor." His jaw tightened. "A condition. Do you want my support, or would you prefer to continue complaining?"

I cleared my throat dramatically. "Well. Go on." 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

He stepped closer again, erasing whatever fragile distance I’d tried to maintain between us.

"You will not meet him alone. You will ensure your safety. You will not put yourself in positions where I cannot reach you."

I opened my mouth to argue. Closed it. Opened it again.

"That’s it? That’s your condition? Don’t get murdered while running a business in a world without antibiotics or reliable policing?"

His jaw tightened. "It’s not amusing."

"No, it’s actually very sweet. In a controlling, vaguely paternalistic, deeply Casimir kind of way." I paused. "I reserve the right to mock you for it later."

Something flickered in his eyes. Not quite a smile. Close, though.

But his hand came up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with a tenderness that made my breath catch.

"Casimir." His name came out weaker than I intended. Pathetic, really.

His thumb traced the line of my jaw, featherlight, and I forgot what I was going to say. Every nerve in my body concentrated on that single point of contact and on the pool between my thighs.

"Tomorrow. The promenade." His thumb traced my jawline. "I’ll be joining you."

I blinked. "What?"

"I’ll be your chaperone." A ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. "I don’t trust Vanderbilt with you. Not after you humiliated him in front of Cornelia. He won’t forget that."

"You want to spend a day watching me pretend to enjoy Bartholomew’s company?"

"I want to spend a day making sure you’re safe." He leaned closer, lips brushing my ear. "And watching him fail to charm you."

My eyes fluttered closed. Traitors, all of them.

His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. Not pulling. Just... holding. Like I was something precious he was afraid to break.

I could feel him everywhere. The heat of his body inches from mine. The ragged edge of his breathing. The restraint vibrating through every muscle.

I wanted to close the distance. Wanted to feel his mouth on mine again, his hands on my skin, wanted to lose myself in the only person in this century who made me feel alive.

Instead, I opened my eyes.

"You’re still wearing too many clothes for a man who climbed through my terrace."

A broken sound escaped him. Something between a laugh and a groan. Between a warning and a prayer.

"Clara."

"I know." I stepped back, putting space between us before I did something we wouldn’t regret but absolutely shouldn’t do. "You’re protecting me from yourself. I know the script."

His hands curled at his sides.

"But for the record?" I crossed my arms, holding myself together. "I don’t want protection. I never wanted protection. I want you to stop pretending this isn’t killing you too."

He stared at me. Something moved behind his eyes, dark and hungry and barely contained.

"Fine, suit yourself." I turned toward my bed, then looked back over my shoulder. "But don’t think this changes anything."

He didn’t move. He just stood there, a man at war with himself.

"Lock the terrace door."

That’s all he said before turning and disappearing into the dead of night.