Page 19 of Whispers of Ruin

The voice is smooth, a bit familiar. I open my eyes to see the same man Julian had been speaking to earlier, the one who had watched me just a little too closely. I force a weak smile, hoping—praying—that he is just drunk, that this is some terrible misunderstanding. But as I move to stand, his hand slides higher. Before I can react, he grabs my breast, fingers digging in without shame.

“Alright,” I say, forcing steadiness. “Clearly, you’ve had too much champagne. Let me go, or my boyfriend is going to handle this for me.”

He laughs. Low, condescending. Like I just said the most amusing thing in the world.

“Julian?” He smirks. “Sweetheart, he would sell his own mother for this promotion.You? You were just part of the deal!”

Everything stops. I cannot breathe. I cannot think. The world crashes violently as his words settle deep into my bones, poisoning everything I thought I knew. Julian would not…

I try to move, to fight, but my limbs feel heavy, useless. My mind fragments, detaching from my body as his hands continue their invasion. I feel everything and nothing all at once.

I am slipping. Fading. My legs give out beneath me. I am falling. And just as I realize it—just as the darkness swallows me whole—it is already too late.

The plan was simple.

Slip into the gala unnoticed, track Mira, and extract whatever information Lucian needed.

What actually happened?

Julian now knows my real name. I’ve made an absolute spectacle of myself by pulling her into a dance that bordered on a public declaration of possession. And worst of all—I lost her.

My eyes scan the ballroom, sweeping over the sea of masks and expensive suits. She’s gone.They’re gone.A sickening, ice-cold certainty creeps through my veins. Nothing good can come of this. If one of those bastards has laid a single, filthy hand on her, I swear—I will carve him open from sternum to spine and string his insides across this fucking mansion like Christmas lights.

I overheard Julian earlier. Whispering to Simon about a trade. About an offer. I know exactly where high-stakes deals are usually made.

The offices. Upstairs.

I slide my knife from its holster, tucking it into my sleeve, every nerve locked onto one single thought.

Findher.Now.

My instincts have never failed me—not once. They have kept me alive in the darkest pits of this world. And right now? They are screaming at me. Screaming that I need to move. That I need to save her.

I take the stairs two at a time. That’s when I hear it. Mira’s voice. Strained. Smothered beneath the guttural rasp of a man’s laughter.

The moment I push open the door, my world narrows to a singular, bloodstained reality. She’s on the ground, legs forced apart, the delicate fabric of her dress torn like it was never meant to be anything but a sacrifice.

He is on top of her. Pinning her down. Mira thrashes, her nails clawing at the asshole’s face, but he is bigger. Stronger. Overpowering her. Unlike when I had her in my arms yesterday, her body is stiff, rigid with horror. She does not want this. She is absolutely terrified.

Rules lodge themself in my mind, many I have obeyed since childhood.Do not interfere. Do not intervene. Stay detached. Follow the mission.But this? This has nothing to do with precision. Nothing to do with discipline. This is about her.

And theonlypersonallowed to break her isme.

My knife glides into my palm. In a single, fluid motion, I bury it in his throat. The steel tears through flesh, slicing from oneside to the other. Mira screams. The man gurgles, a wet, choking sound as his body convulses, blood surging from his throat in thick, crimson waves. It floods down, drenching her in warmth, mingling with the red of her dress until there is no distinction between fabric and death.

I grab a fistful of his hair before he can collapse on top of her. My blade slides free, and I turn my head toward Mira—only her.

She’s staring at me. Not with fear. Not with horror. But something else. Something raw. Something I own. I lower my voice, quiet but seething, laced with darkness and absolute.

“This is my first gift to you.”

“And I promise, little fox—there will be many more.”

With merciless precision, I press my blade against the inner corner of his eye and push. He jerks, still barely alive, spasming as I work the knife deeper, until the socket gives way. Until his eyeball detaches. His remaining eye widens in sheer agony, and for a brief, glorious moment, I hold him there—force him to watch as I finish what I started.

The second the eye threatens to pop free, I yank the knife back, shove my fingers into the gaping wound, and rip it out myself. It dangles between my fingers, slick and warm, the optic nerve twitching like it still understands the magnitude of its suffering.

I lift it, just enough for him to see what I have done before the final breath rattles from his chest. I let his corpse slump forward, his dead weight hitting the ground with a dull thud.

---