Page 27 of Whispers of Ruin

The teasing vanishes. “I—I don’t know. It’s always so unclear, I can’t just—”

A sharp breath burns through my lungs. The frustration inside me snaps like a wire stretched too tight. My palm collides with the armrest of her chair, the impact rattling through the room. She flinches from shock, but I don’t care. I lean in, jaw clenched.

“You will remember, Mira. Because if you don’t, I will put you in a fucking bunker where no one can ever reach you until you do. Do you understand me?”

Her pulse kicks against the fragile skin of her throat. She swallows, chest rising and falling unevenly. She keeps her stance; she understands the importance. A deep breath shudders through her, her fingers curling against the fabric of her shirt.

“There’s an alley.” Her voice is barely there. “Dark. Cold. I think it’s in the city. Every time I dream of it, I feel this unbearable weight—like grief pressing down on my ribs. Like I’m losing him all over again.” She blinks, expression tightening. “Which is totally senseless. He died in a work accident. That is what I was told.”

It takes the sting of my nails digging into my palms to notice my hands have clenched into fists.

A pause. Her lips part, but for a moment, nothing comes. Then—“In my dream, it’s different… Julian always told me I was imagining things. That it was just my mind playing tricks on me.”

A sharp inhale, as if the air itself is cutting into her lungs.

“But after tonight… I don’t know what to believe anymore.” She blinks rapidly, but not fast enough to stop the tears from rising.

Something inside me twists. It should not. But it does. “What else? Tell me what happens in the alley right fucking now, Mira.”

“There… There’s a man.” Her breathing shudders. “I never see his face. Though I hear something. A voice, maybe. No, not a voice. A whisper.”

The blood in my veins turns to ice.

She presses a hand to her temple, as if trying to physically drag the thought out. “It always ends before I can see more. But tonight… when you mentioned the painting, I felt different. Like I’m supposed to remember. Like I have to.”

Silence swells between us. She speaks without knowing. The truth is right there, and she walks right past it. But I see it for what it is. This vision isn’t a dream. It’s a memory.

And if she remembers the rest—She’s dead.

Iwake up in the small bed of the unfamiliar room, alone and disoriented, my mind heavy with the thought of last night. Reality hits. I'm in the warehouse, wide awake.

I shift under the blanket, my body stiff, my mind sluggish, and it all comes crashing back. The blood. The violence. The way Julian’s betrayal cut deeper than any blade ever could.

I really watched a man have his eye torn from its socket and I really heard Julian barter my life away like a cheap commodity, all for the promise of power. The man I once saw a future with—the one I foolishly believed could have been my husband, even the father of my children—had discarded me like trash.

Now, I am here. Trapped in a place I don’t recognize, under the control of a man I can’t predict, feeling like prey in a den of wolves.

I push myself upright, running a hand down my face while an intriguing scent stops me. No—multiple scents. Toasted sesame. Rich, dark coffee. The buttery warmth of something sweet—muffins, maybe. Or chocolate. Beneath them all, threadingthrough the air, is a scent that makes between my thighs prickle and my pulse waver.

Xan.Deep, masculine, and unmistakably intoxicating.

I only notice I have moved once I’m already on my feet, ghosting over the cold floor, drawn toward the slightly ajar bathroom door. The steam curls lazily through the gap, carrying heat and the crisp, sharp scent of soap. And through that narrow sliver of space—I see him.

His reflection in the mirror—his bare torso, the tattoos winding across his skin like stories etched in ink. More than that, I see the scars. Raised and jagged, some faint with time, others still exposed. I wonder how many battles he has survived. How many times he has bled and healed. My fingers twitch at my sides, a strange compulsion rising. I want to touch them. To trace the lines of his pain with my own hands.

I should look away. But I remain fixed. I swallow hard, my breath unsteadies as I watch him rake his fingers through his wet hair, slicking it back, exposing the strong cut of his jaw. The water trails down each sculpted line, following the defined ridges of his spine, disappearing over the curves of his waist, his hips, his…—

The door creaks. A single betraying sound. Xan freezes. The bar of soap slips from his grasp, landing with a dull thud against the porcelain. Every muscle in his back locks, his entire body going rigid. His shoulders tense, the slight tilting of his head. The air in the room turns razor-sharp.

Shit.

“Mira...” His tone is a low, deadly warning. “Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

I stumble back, my heart hammering. As I turn, my eyes catch on his mask, lying on the counter near the sink. My stomach drops. I almost saw his face. I lunge for the bedroom door, my fingers curling around the handle—it refuses to budge.

Panic flares, sharp and sudden. I try again. It won’t turn. I am trapped. I startle as the bathroom door swings open behind me. That’s when I see him.

Towering. Dripping wet. Naked.

---