Page 26 of Whispers of Ruin

“The Order is my home. I live where my target takes me.”

I let the words slip on purpose. I need her to trust me, need her to believe this is mutual. If I want answers, she must think I am giving her something in return. Her brows pull together slightly.

“The Order… They are the ones making you watch me?”

She takes a long drag; the cigarette crackling softly between her fingers.

“At first, yeah. But now… let just say there is a lot more personal interest involved.”

I drain the rest of my glass, the dull thud of the empty tumbler against the table filling the silence. She exhales, a ghost of smoke curling through the air as she blows it directly into my face before giving it back.

I keep my composure. That’s what she wants, and I do not give people what they want so easily. I have been trained to be cold, controlled, untouchable. Even when control is the hardest thing to hold onto.

“I suppose if I ask why you were watching me, you won’t answer?”

Too much attitude. She is right, though. I cannot tell her. Despite that, I also cannot leave without the answers I came here for. Maybe she won’t be any more willing to answer me than I am her.

“Let’s play a game, little fox.” I lean forward. “I will ask you questions. If you answer them correctly…” I pause, drinking in the way she falters. “… I will reward you.”

“What kind of reward?,” she says with a note of suspicion.

I let my lips curve into an unreadable smile.

“Answer correctly, and you’ll find out.”

Her brow arches, skepticism tightening her features. Unfazed, she stands her ground. She wants to know.

Good.

I lean back, stretching the silence before speaking again.

“Let us begin. The painting you were obsessing over the other night, right before closing the gallery—the one I gently recreated for you in that little gift you found at your door.”

Mira stiffens, looking to her palm. She traces the faint fresh wound carved into her skin, a brand she can never wash away.

“How could I forget?” she says, edged with dry sarcasm. “You made sure I never would.”

“What does that illustration mean to you?”

My tone is light, though the intention behind the question is crushing. She lets out a deep exhale. When she finally speaks, her words are brittle, drifting.

“A dream. One I have had for years. Too vivid to be a dream, too fractured to be real.” She falters, fingers twitching. “It’s always the same. Over and over. Like something trying to claw its way back into my memory.”

A cold ripple runs through me, but I force myself to stay still. “And?”

She lifts her head, a hollow void creeping into her expression. “It is the only thing I have left of my father.”

The room gets dangerously small. A beat passes, then another. The walls feel closer. I don’t like it.

Before I can think, I’m standing. Moving. Closing the space between us with eager, measured steps. My fingers find her chin, urgently tilting it upward.

“Tell me what happens in the dream. Every detail.”

She smiles, lazy and taunting. “How about my reward?”

The moment fractures. Whatever game we were playing is gone. My hand claws her face, voice sinking lower.

“Forget the reward.” The words scrape out, raw and unyielding. “Tell me what you see.”

---