My Ruin to You - Chapter 8

As if it had all been nothing more than a light tease for her distant behavior, he smiled breezily. Then he caught her chin, pressing his lips to her pale forehead. Whether she gasped or not, he didn’t care—his kisses trailed down to the tip of her nose, lingering dangerously close to her lips before he finally pulled back.

“Why are you doing this, Your Highness? Not here.”

Roseline barely managed to block his lips with her fingers, brows furrowing in protest.

“Ah, right. My mistake.”

Valen withdrew easily, nodding as if only just realizing—yet his gaze never strayed to their surroundings. Instead, he seized Roseline’s hand and pulled her toward what she presumed was his carriage.

Walking hand in hand like any other ordinary day, a thought struck her: Ah, today was doomed from the start.

Perhaps the very idea of breaking up with a man who’d just raced back for her was absurd to begin with.

Let’s stop seeing each other. I’m exhausted.

Even her rehearsed words felt ridiculous now. She was tired—but not the kind you confess to someone who’d spent three sleepless days crossing mountains for you.

If her heart had truly gone cold, she wouldn’t care about courtesy or memories. But then and now, this infuriatingly perfect man had done nothing wrong, leaving her tangled in considerations—the mood, the timing, the shock and hurt he’d feel.

If breaking up once is this hard, how do people do it so casually?

Fine. Not today. She’d endure this meeting and revisit the talk during the holidays.

“Hng—”

But “enduring today” clearly hadn’t included this. The carriage door barely clicked shut before his lips captured hers.

“Mm—!”

When Roseline pushed at his chest, Valen punished her by biting her lower lip. The sharp sting made her gasp—a mistake he exploited, his tongue surging in to claim her mouth.

“Hah—nn, ngh…!”

Her balance tipped backward until her skull met the carriage wall. Trapped, she could only clutch his shoulders as he cradled her nape, tilting her head to deepen the angle.

Schlick. Squelch. The wet slide of skin, the lewd sounds of their kiss drowning her ears.

“Open wider. No one’s watching.”

Her own words—Not here—thrown back at her. At least now, there truly were no prying eyes.

“W-wait, hah—!”

Her feeble attempts to shove him off failed. A large hand cupped her cheek, thumb pressing insistently until her jaw slackened, surrendering to a deeper, messier union. He mapped every inch of her mouth like a man verifying his territory.

She knew breathing through her nose was possible—but the weight of a starved beast and the rawness of his kiss made it impossible.

“C-can’t… breathe…!”

Only when Roseline thumped his arm in desperation did he finally pull back—reluctantly.

Schlurp. Pop. Valen licked the saliva trailing her chin, only satisfied once her sharp jawline glistened anew with his mark. His lips migrated to her ear, then her throat, each kiss a brand.

He buried his straight nose into the crook of her neck and shoulder, his damp breaths gradually steadying. As his broad shoulders rose and fell, Roseline—whether she intended to or not—found herself drowning in his scent.

A fragrance as soft and intoxicating as a moonlit forest. Before she realized it, she was sniffing lightly, prompting Valen to laugh, the sound vibrating against her skin.

“You have no idea how I suffered. This kept haunting me.”

He nipped lightly at her delicate flesh before abruptly lifting her onto his lap. Before she could protest, his lips claimed hers again—sucking at her plush lower lip, then dragging his tongue along her palate, devouring her small tongue like a starving man.

This was bad. If the kisses were draining her soul, the heat building lower down was setting her frayed nerves ablaze.

“Your Highness—w-wait—!”

“Still calling me that?”

Despite his words feigning displeasure, his actions were blatant. Gripping her waist, he pressed her down firmly, making her feel the hardened length straining against fabric.

“…Valen. Stop. Just—”

“I promise. I won’t put it in.”

He kept his word. Truly, he didn’t.

But his lips never left hers until the carriage halted, and she couldn’t escape his lap. When she gasped for air, he granted her brief respite—only to shower kisses along her eyelids, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth.

Only after the carriage stopped did guilt crash over her. Until then, pleasure had left no room for thought—and that was the problem. How could she melt so easily, when she’d come here to break up?

What was she—some lecherous degenerate?

But what was done couldn’t be undone. Going further, though, is unacceptable. If she followed him into the bedroom now, she’d be worse than a degenerate. She’d be pathetic.