Page 21 of Whispers of Ruin

And I would not blame her.

She saw just enough to know something’s wrong—with me, with all of this. And if she did not, she will soon. I have done things no apology could ever erase. If she knew the half of it, she would already be running.

So, I drive. And wait for the moment she finally breaks the mute atmosphere.

She has not moved much. Just sits there, staring out the window like the world outside might make more sense than the one she’s in now. I glance at her once. Then again.

Still nothing. No questions. No screaming. Just silence, coiled and ready to snap.

I fucking hate this part. The waiting. The not knowing what version I’ll get when it finally breaks.

I shift my grip on the wheel. Clear my throat. Think about saying something—but nothing useful comes to mind.

What the hell am I supposed to say anyway?

Then she turns. Slow. Mechanical.

Her eyes find mine.

“You killed him.”

She finally speaks. Her voice is shaky. Mine isn’t.

“No. I saved you.”

The city lights blur past in streaks of gold and orange as Xan drives, his grip white-knuckled on the wheel. The speedometer creeps higher, but I barely feel the momentum. My body is frozen, locked in place, the blood drying on my skin like a second layer of flesh. It is not mine.

The scent of iron is strong, suffocating. My dress—once sleek and elegant—now clings to my body in wet patches, ruined. The fabric sticks to my thighs, my stomach, my chest. My hands shake, my breath comes in shallow bursts, still I cannot seem to move. To speak. To do anything but stare at the dark smudges of red staining my fingers that won’t come off. I rub my palms against my thighs, desperate to make it disappear. But the more I scrub, the deeper it seems to sink in. The more real it becomes.

I can still hear it. The gurgling sound as the man bled out on top of me. The wet squelch of flesh being torn. The ragged gasps as Xan ripped his eye from its socket.

A sound escapes me—caught between a sob and a whimper. He refuses to look at me. Says nothing. Just drives.

The silence in the car is a noose, tightening around my throat with every second that passes. I know I should say something—anything—but what words could possibly fit?

How do you talk after witnessing that? After being a part of it? Because I was. I might not have held the knife, but I felt the life drained from that man’s body. I felt it. And I never looked away.

What does that make me?

The tires screech as Xan takes a sharp turn, snapping me out of my thoughts. My body lurches sideways. The seatbelt digs into my chest, keeping me anchored.

He is driving recklessly, pushing the car to its limits, weaving through traffic with lethal ease. Obviously, he has done this before. Panic flutters weakly in my stomach.

“Where are we going…” My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

He exhales sharply through his nose, fingers flexing around the wheel.

“Somewhere safe.”

I swallow.

“Safe from who?”

Finally, he glances at me. Just for a second. But it is enough. His eyes through his mask—cold, dark, unreadable—show no comfort.

“No one yet,” he says. “But that will change soon.”

I shudder.

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