Page 20 of Whispers of Ruin

I turn back to her, stepping closer, knife still slick with his blood, and tilt her chin up with the blade. My voice is a whisper,a vow, a death sentence to every man who will ever think of touching her again.

“This is for you, Mira.”

“And it will happen again. And again. Andagain—to anyone who dares lay eyes on what belongs to me.”

I glance down at the scumbag’s corpse, his head lolling unnaturally, blood still pooling beneath him. The slash across his throat gapes wide, his eye socket an empty, oozing void. If I leave him like this, someone will definitely ask questions.

And I do not want questions. I want fear.

I kneel beside him, take his chin, and force his head back into position. His jaw flaps uselessly, slack and bloodied, but I do not need him to talk. I just need him tospeak.

I retrieve my weapon, still warm from his flesh, and carve a mark across his cheek—curling a circled ‘T’ that the right people will recognize. Asignature, unmistakable to those who operate in the shadows of this city.

The Obsidian Order does not tolerate weakness. They sure as hell don’t tolerate their members being taken out like this. Whoever finds him will assume one thing—he was punished. And no one questions a punishment.

I lift the body by the shoulders and drag it toward the farthest end of the room. There is a small, round table, barely used. I prop him up in one of the high-backed chairs, straightening his posture, letting his head fall slightly forward as if he’s simply slumped in thought. I fix his collar, wipe a smear of blood from his lips with my sleeve. From the outside, it looks almost… peaceful.Almost.

The final touch? I take his missing eye—the one I ripped from his skull—and place it carefully in his palm, fingers curled around it like a gift. An offering. Awarning. Anyone who walks in here will know exactly what this means.

I turn back to her, scanning the mess of her appearance. She looks wrecked. Not just by what happened, but by me. Her dress—ruined. Torn at the hem, stained a deep, damning crimson. Her hands, shaking, still slick with his blood. If she walks out like this, they will stop us.

I unbutton my tuxedo jacket and drape it over her shoulders, shielding as much of her body as I can. However, the fabric won’t hide the way she moves—the stiffness, the shock.

Think, Hayes. Think.

The coat check.

There is a hallway nearby—one meant for staff, yet open to guests who know where to look. I grab her wrist, tugging her toward it, ignoring how cold she feels beneath my touch.

We reach a storage closet. I yank the door open, searching through shelves of coats, scarves, anything. My fingers brush over something soft—cashmere. A long, elegant wrap, perfect for draping over her shoulders, over her shame.

“Lift your arms.”

She obeys without question, letting me wrap the fabric around her like I am dressing a doll. Her hands are still bloody. I grab a champagne bucket from a nearby table, the ice half-melted, and thrust her hands into the freezing water. She gasps, but I don’t let go. I rub her fingers together beneath the surface, watching the water darken, swirl.

“Stay still,” I order. She does.

I dry her hands with a cloth napkin, then take her chin between my fingers, tilting her face toward mine. Inspecting her.

“If anyone asks, you spilled wine. You got sick. You’re drunk. Whatever. Say anything else, and I will fucking drag you out of here kicking and screaming,understood?”

Her lips press together. She nods.

The front is too exposed. Too many eyes. Too many questions. Instead, I guide her through the service hallway, past waiters carrying trays of champagne and plates of caviar. No one stops us. Nobody even notices.

Outside, the crisp night air cuts through the stench of blood, replacing it with gasoline, smoke, the distant promise of rain. I pull Mira closer, pressing a hand to the small of her back.

A valet eyes us curiously. I flash a couple of crisp hundred-dollar bills, muttering, “No questions.”

He hands me a set of keys without a word. Seconds later, we are in a sleek black car, gliding away from the scene like shadows slipping through the cracks of a city that never really sleeps. She’s staring out the window, unmoving, her face unreadable in the dim light.

Still processing.

I don’t speak. Not yet.

Mira’s silence presses against my chest, heavy and expectant. I keep my eyes on the road, but my focus drifts to her—the set of her shoulders, the tension in her jaw. She hasn’t asked where we are going. Or why. She hasn’t looked at me once.

I expect fear. Accusations. Maybe even disgust.

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