Page 35 of Whispers of Ruin

“Relax. You were willing a second ago? Why stop now?”

I swing. Hard. My palm connects with his face, nails dragging across his skin. He curses, gripping my jaw so tight my teeth ache.

“Feisty.” He licks the blood from his lip. “But not for long.”

My pulse slams against my ribs as he reaches for his belt.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My brain scrambles for a way out, but before I can move, the door explodes open. A blur of black. A thunderous impact. The man is ripped off me so violently he barely has time to make a sound before he is crashing into the dresser, the lamp shattering on the floor.

Xan.

I lurch away as I watch Xan completely unravel with just raw, unfiltered brutality. Every hit is intense, purposeful, designed to break. Blood splatters across the pristine carpet, staining it in chaotic patterns. A wet, choking sound escapes the man’s throat, his attempts to shield himself growing weaker with each impact. He is barely conscious, his face swollen and unrecognizable. Clearly, Xan gives zero fucks.

He’s going to kill him.

Stopping him crosses my mind. So does speaking up. However, all I can do is stare, my breath shallow, my body trembling.Xan finally exhales, his shoulders rising and falling like a tempest barely contained. His knuckles are drenched in red as he finally lifts his gaze to mine. His mask is still in place, but his presence—his fury—is animalistic.

He steps closer angrily.

“You think you can just fucking wander off?”

I open my mouth, but no words come. I don’t know what to say.

I wanted you to follow me? I wanted to see if you would come after me?

He grabs my chin violently, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Say something now,” he demands roughly.

I stay speechless. Because the only thing I can focus on right now is the way my body reacts—how, despite the terror, I want him. Right here, in the wreckage of this room, with anger still thrumming in his veins and blood staining his knuckles.

I want him to take me, to claim me in the chaos he created, to make me feel every ounce of the rage that is still burning beneath his skin. I want him to show me whatdefying Xantruly means. To make me understand just how much this pushed him past his breaking point. To punish me for thinking, even for a second, that I could walk away from him.

Still unable to form a single word, I reach out, my fingers trembling as they move toward his face. He grabs my wrist in an instant, his grip savage, unyielding.

“Don’t.”

The command is guttural, but I fight against his hold, forcing him to loosen his grip just enough for me to slip through. My fingers find his hair—dark, unruly, still damp with blood. His blood. Someone else’s. I don’t care.

I stroke a tangled strand, watching the red smear across my fingertips, staining them with evidence of his violence. It fascinates me. Hypnotizes me. I stare at my hand as if it holds the answer to unspoken secrets, as if it might unlock some deep, forbidden truth between us.

I know he is watching me. Studying me just as intently. I want him to understand that I am not afraid of his fury.

I crave it.

Steadily, I draw my hand back, trailing it down the dainty strap of my satin dress. I let it slip from my shoulder, exposing the curve of my skin beneath. His breath shudders, ragged and heavy. That’s when I see it—the way his cock twitches, thickening right before my eyes. My bloodstained fingers glide over my bare shoulder, down the slope of my collarbone, and across the swell of my breast, leaving streaks of crimson in their wake. A silent offering. A challenge.

Look, Xan. Look at what you make me do.

At how I come undone for you, how I sink willingly into this dark, twisted devotion. How I want you to keep spilling his blood until there is nothing left, until the room reeks of death, and you know—you fucking know—that no other man can ever touch me without paying the price with his life.I want you to destroyanyone who dares lay eyes on me.I want you to find me and break me repeatedly until I am nothing but yours.Forever.

I reach up, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw under his mask, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. He’s still furious. Still lost in whatever is raging inside him. My other hand drags lower, smearing streaks of blood across my own flesh. It is written all over his eyes—the way he follows the movement, his pupils blown wide with desire beyond lust.

“You’re still thinking about him,” he says roughly.

I shake my head, nails digging into his shoulder.

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