Page 42 of Whispers of Ruin

He looks effortlessly regal, lounging there with that quiet confidence, exuding mystery, a man with the world at his feet. And for reasons beyond my understanding, he has chosen me.He has decided that it is my body he desires, my curves he worships, my red hair, my pale eyes.

The impact of that realization crashes over me. I have never known what it feels like toreallybelong to someone, to be wanted likethis. With him, I feel it—a tether, an unshakable pull. He proves me that I am not alone in this solitary world. That, for the first time, I have an ally to stand beside. That, for the first time, I can belong to something—someone. A home. Afamily.

Her body is sheer perfection, sculpted as if the gods of beauty themselves had taken their time, carving every dip and curve with divine precision.

I am not a believer—not in gods, not in fate—but right now? I would gladly drop to my knees and worship at the altar of her form without a second thought. If this is blasphemy, then consider me a devoted sinner, because I am absolutely fantasizing about a sacred marble masterpiece, and I have zero regrets.

The fiery copper of her hair glows even in the dim shadows of the room, a beacon against the darkness. However, it is her eyes that hold me captive—pools of quiet suffering, etched with the ghosts of every abandonment she has endured. Yet, beneath the weight of all that pain, there is something new flickering in their depths. A fragile ember of hope, hesitant but undeniable, as if for the first time, she dares to think she is no longer alone.

She would be right to believe it—because the only force that could tear me from her now is death itself. And I don’t mean hers. If she were to slip away from this world, I would not stay in it for long. I would follow without hesitation, willinglysurrendering to the emptiness just to find her on the other side. Because I realize that a life without her is no life at all, merely an existence—empty, hollow, and devoid of any meaning.

As she finishes dressing, I take one last drag of my cigarette, the ash glowing in the chamber before I turn and crush it out. When I face forward again, my gaze lands on the man who dared to manipulate my girl, who used a masked face to deceive Mira—to violate what is hers alone to give, and mine alone to worship.

“You should have turned your eyes elsewhere,” I murmur. “Away from the innocence of my little fox.”

I crouch beside him, grasping his lifeless face with cold precision. His vacant, unseeing globes stare up at me as I reach out, pulling down his lower eyelid. With the same ruthless efficiency with which he once hunted his prey, I press the burning ember of my cigarette against the delicate tissue of his retina. The hiss of searing flesh sizzling. Smoke curls. The acrid scent of scorched meat lingers in the air, an offering to the cruelty he inflicted.

Mira watches me, her expression unreadable—curious, disturbed, yet… exhilarated. I know that look. I see the way she is unfolding, shedding the last remnants of the girl she was, stepping fully into the woman she is becoming.

With one hand, I retrieve another cigarette, lighting it slowly, inhaling deeply until the heat sears through my lungs. With the other, I reach for Mira, guiding her into my lap, pulling her against me. I feel her settle, warm and pliant, as the world burns around us. I trace lazy patterns along her thigh as I let her take in the sight before us—the delicate consumption of flesh by flame. It is almost poetic, in its own grotesque way. The irony is not lost on me.

It feels like one of those quiet, intimate moments shared between lovers—like a couple curled up by a crackling campfire, passing a cigarette, lost in the dance of the flames. Except our fire is a man’s ruined face, and the only thing we are burning through is the last shred of his existence.

We sit in silence, the only sound the soft inhale and exhale of smoke leaving my lips. The air is thick with the scent of scorched flesh and nicotine, and somehow, this moment feels… peaceful.

“Isn’t it nice, little fox?” I say, amusement curling at the edge of my voice. “You and me, wrapped up together by the fire.”

She lets out a laugh, light and sharp, smacking my arm.

“You’re so stupid.”

“I know.” I grin, taking another drag. “Now, it’s your turn.”

I extend the cigarette toward her, positioning it into her trembling hand. She shudders the moment her fingers close around it—a tremor caught in the balance of fear and anticipation, but she still takes it.

“As far as I remember, he looked at you withbothof his eyes, didn’t he?” I say in a smooth, mischievous way. “I command it for me… but in the end, I want it to be for you.”

She hesitates, staring down at the still body before her, the cinder flickering between her fingertips, a primal war raging in her mind. I see the moment her resolve falters, her breath hitching as she freezes just before making contact. She needs support. It is natural. It is expected. And I will always be there to give it to her—especially when her first kill will come.

I move to steady her hand, but before I can, she steels her nerves and takes the final step forward. All she needed was the smallest push, a whisper of assurance.

In that moment, with more force than I used—so much more, and hell, that makes my dick going berserk again—she drives the cigarette into the remaining eye. The flesh boiling on impact, the wet crackle of burning tissue filling the hotel room as the heat consumes what is left.

Then… she smiles. A small, wicked thing curling at the edges of her lips.

AndGodhelp me; she has never looked more beautiful.

Covered in blood, in sweat, in the remnants of her own transformation. She is carved from fire and vengeance, from ashes and untamed, unbreakable force.

She is, without a doubt, the woman of my fucking life.

Morning has barely broken, a faint light slipping through the curtains of my room, and already, my mood is as stormy as last night. Mira sleeps in her own room, where I took her after our little escapade. I stayed outside her door for a while, listening to her breathing, making sure she found at least a sliver of peace—one wrapped in ashes and dried blood.

Me, though? I did not sleep. Not really. The adrenaline faded, but the irritation never did. I reach for my phone and dial Lucian, stretching out on my bed as the call rings. When he picks up, I shut him down before he even starts.

“Morning, sunshine,” I purr, stretching lazily. “Tell me, how does it feel to be your own financial liability? Paying a man to clean up the corpse of another man you also paid? That’s got to sting.”

I let a beat of silence hang, just long enough to let the humiliation sink in.

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