Guardian of Ruin

The silence in our house isn’t peaceful—it’s a warning.

It hums like static in my ears as I close the front door behind me, the echo of my boots bouncing off high ceilings and polished floors. No one answers. Not even the housekeeper today.

Dad's gone again. Surprise.

There's a folded note on the counter in his quick, military-scrawl handwriting:

> "Had to leave for D.C. Emergency hearing. Roman will check in. Be good."

–Dad

Be good.

I crumble the note in my fist, jaw tight. That phrase doesn’t mean anything when you're left alone in a five-bedroom house with no one but a ghost of a father and a man who’s always just... watching.

Roman Cross.

The name tastes dangerous on my tongue even when I’m not saying it out loud. My dad’s best friend. Ex-special forces. Always in black. Eyes like cold steel and a voice that makes waiters stand straighter.

He’s been around since I was a kid. Quiet, controlled, impossible to read. The kind of man who doesn’t speak unless it's important—but when he does, everyone listens. Even my dad.

And now? He's here. Not as a guest anymore. As something else.

A guardian, my father said. Just until he was home more.

That was six months ago.

I toss my bag onto the couch and freeze when I hear the back door open. Heavy, unhurried footsteps. The kind that don’t rush because they know they’re in control.

Roman.

I turn just as he steps inside, sunlight slicing through the doorway and catching on the edge of his jaw. He looks like he walked straight out of a war and never quite put the armor down.

Black t-shirt. Black jeans. That leather band he always wears around his wrist like a secret.

His eyes meet mine—cool, unreadable.

“You’re home late,” he says.

His voice scrapes along my skin, low and quiet. Not angry. Just... there. Like he’s keeping track.

“Got coffee after class,” I say, shrugging. “Didn’t realize I had to check in like a child.”

His jaw tightens just a little. “It’s not about checking in, Eden. It’s about safety.”

“It’s about control,” I mutter, turning away. “There’s a difference.”

The air thickens.

I feel it—his gaze. Like hands on my back, heavy and burning.

“Your father asked me to watch over you,” he says, voice lower now. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have rules of my own.”

My breath catches.

It’s the way he says it. Like there’s something beneath those words. Something darker. Something not meant for me—and yet somehow, only for me.

I don’t respond. I don’t trust my voice not to betray the heat coiling in my stomach.

He walks past me, slow, close enough that his arm brushes mine. He smells like smoke and cedar and something expensive and unforgivable.

“Dinner’s in the kitchen,” he murmurs.

Then he’s gone—just like that. Leaving me standing there, heart racing, skin buzzing, lips parted in some silent question I don’t dare ask.

Because I already know the answer.

Roman Cross isn’t just here to protect me.

He's here to ruin me.

*****

Roman's POV

She smells like vanilla and defiance.

I can still feel the heat of her skin from where our arms brushed, and I swear to God, it’s a test. It has to be.

Because if this was just about a promise, I would’ve walked away the second she turned eighteen. Hell, I should’ve walked away long before that.

But I didn’t. I stayed. I moved into the guesthouse. I kept the cameras running. I monitored her texts. I memorized her schedule.

I told myself it was protection. Loyalty. Duty.

I lied.

I stare at the kitchen sink as the faucet runs, cold water pouring over my hands, grounding me. I can still see her in my mind—dark eyes burning with something she doesn’t understand yet. Lips parted like a dare.

She’s always had that look. Curious. Reckless.

But now? It’s worse. Now she’s old enough to mean it.

And I’m old enough to know better.

The sound of her footsteps echoes faintly down the hallway. She’s pacing. Irritated. Good. Let her be mad at me. It’s better than the alternative.

Because if she starts looking at me the way I’ve started looking at her, we’re both fucked.

You're just watching out for her, Ro. That’s what her father said the day he handed me the keys. You’ve always been better at discipline than I am.

He had no idea what he was asking.

Because he doesn’t know what I am—not really. Not what I’ve done. What I still do, after hours, in rooms hidden beneath the city where no one uses real names and pain is currency.

She found out about the club last month. I saw it on her face. The curiosity. The hunger.

She thinks I didn’t notice.

She’s wrong.

I grip the edge of the counter until the granite bites into my palms.

She’s becoming dangerous to me.

Not because she’s off-limits. Not even because of her father.

But because I don’t want to resist her anymore.

I close my eyes, inhaling slowly through my nose.

“Control yourself,” I whisper.

It’s not the first time I’ve said it.

It won’t be the last.