Page 2 of Ruin

An ugly chuckle escaped the Mogovian’s hidden mouth as one of his tentacles snaked out to stroke her matted blonde hair in a mockery of affection.

Throughout it all, she held her head defiantly high as she was forced to sit there on the dirty floor.

Ruin curled his hands into fists beneath the table. He fucking loathed slavery—the stolen lives, the broken spirits, the utter lack of honor. Dealing death was one thing, but subjugating and degrading another sapient being like this?

It turned his fucking stomach.

He may be a murderer—what most would call a criminal and a villain.

But even villains had their morals.

Just then, the female looked his way. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses faded into the background as their gazes met and held for the endless span of a heartbeat.

Pale green and haunted, those eyes cut straight through him.

Within them glittered a silent plea, a wealth of pain, and a refusal to be crushed no matter how heavy the hopelessness bearing down on her became.

In that brief moment of connection, something shifted within him, some inexplicable possessiveness, a primal instinct he didn’t know he had, reverberated down to his fucking bones.

Ruin cursed under his breath, but he knew there was no going back.

He was gonna free her. Consequences be damned.

Lira tunedout the grating voices of Vargot and his henchmen with an ease borne of much practice as she shuffled along dutifully behind them.

She focused on slowing her breathing, letting the pain from the chafing collar Vargot kept yanking on and the sting of the cuts scoring her bare feet fade into the back of her mind.

It was a skill she’d honed to near perfection—the ability to push through physical misery and let her imagination float off to somewhere happier, somewhereshewas in control.

Seven years of being treated as little more than an animal had changed her, turned her into a timid thing. Quick to flinch. Afraid of the lash. But they hadn’t broken her spirit completely, and they never would.

Vargot had wiped her memory after he bought her, so she didn’t actually know what her life had been like before being his pet. Maybe she’d always been like this. Cringing, fearful, pliant, yet unbreakable.

Something small darted nearby, immediately grabbing her attention and wiping away those ugly thoughts. A smile blossomed as she watched the mangy littlespaceratduck and dart between limbs.

Others treated them as vermin, but Lira thought they were cute and knew they were much smarter than people gave them credit for.

Drifting off again once it was out of sight, she floated in her mind. An unexpectedly hard yank on her leash had her falling painfully to her knees. She reluctantly refocused on her surroundings to find they were in a bar.

With only her eyes, she scanned the squalid establishment, sizing up the other people in there and noting the exits—just in case. Always, just in case.

And then she sawhim.

Breath hitching, she stared at the massive, pale-skinned Lurian sitting alone in the corner, taking in every detail the dim lighting allowed.

Glowing yellow eyes regarded her avidly from beneath prominent brow ridges. Harsh, angular features were emphasized by the swirling, black, tribal tattoos on his face and hairless skull. Matte metal piercings decorated his sharply pointed ears from lobes to tips.

His dark cloak had fallen back, revealing broad, muscular shoulders. Her breath caught as she took in his shirtless torso. Hard and brawny, his form was marked with what looked like ritualistic scars and more of those intricate black tattoos. They were thicker on his body, heavier and more elaborate than those on his face and head.

A shiver ran down her spine, one that had nothing to do with fear.

There was something mesmerizing, almost magnetic, about this male.

An unmistakable aura of danger radiated from him, yet when she met his eyes again, there was a softness there. Hunger and an almost feral intensity, yes, but still, tenderness.

Gods, he was beautiful. Not in the traditional sense, not in the way most people defined it. No, his was the beauty of a wild thing—powerful, deadly, untamed.

His gaze flicked from her up to Vargot, lip curling in a silent snarl of disgust, giving her a glimpse of sharp double fangs. She watched, transfixed, as his hand strayed to the grip of the matte black gun holstered at his hip, pale fingers tracing it with a strange affection.

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