Page 43 of Whispers of Ruin

“Personally?” I let out a low chuckle. “I think it is the funniest shit I have ever seen. Almost makes me want to let you keep going just to see what else you will waste your money on.”

I exhale slowly, letting the last traces of laughter fade, my tone shifting with it. Because as much as I enjoy getting under his skin, this is not why I called.

“Listen, Mira is going to rise in this world, whether is with or without you. She has the drive. And the smarts. What is coming next for her—it’s not even a choice. It is inevitable. And I will gladly be the one who shapes it.”

I hear the restraint in his breath, the tension behind his silence—but this? This part is out of his hands.

Because my little fox and I? We are fucking unstoppable. And now that she wants me by her side, no one will touch us.

“Mira’s completely blind to the truth about her father.” I continue. “She has no clue what she is capable of, though I saw it in her yesterday. And that kind of skill? Practically extinct”

I pause, my tone deepening as the meaning of the words settles in.

“You and I have been at each other’s throats for too long now. It is time we stop tearing ourselves down and start looking at what is right in front of us. We can have Mira on our side, and she’ll never need to know the truth about Edmond. I’ll make sure of that. She can’t ever find out I was there when it all happened.”

The thought alone sends a bullet through my chest.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Lucian? This is not just about the Order. It’s abouther. Her past is irrelevant. She will become exactly what I mold her to be. We do this my way, or I’ll burn the Order into the fucking ground with you on top of it.”

Lucian stays silent; however I know he’s dissecting my words, breaking them down the way he always does. I push myself up, pacing slowly across the room, the phone still to my ear.

“Let’s stop wasting time,” I press on. “You and I both know where this is headed. Mira belongs in the Order. She always has. She has already proven that. So, will you take my offer, or shall we keep playing this game of cat and mouse—both of us fully aware that we are far too skilled to ever truly lose?”

I hear through the phone a small noise—a growl, a delightful mix of frustration and a sigh.

“I want her to have at least one kill under her belt before we officially bring her in,” finally says Lucian. “And don’t tell her about the Order’s intentions—just find her a target and evaluate her performances.”

A low chuckle escapes me, a knowing smirk forming. I already have a clear direction in mind.

“You’ll hear from me soon enough,” I retort, ending the call.

Now that this is settled, Mira can finally return home. But there is not a chance in hell I will let her out of my sight—not even for a second. She is far too precious to me and, from this moment on, to the Order as well.

I knock twice on her door. Not hard. Just to let her know I mean business, but not enough to wake the dead. Mira, however, groans like I have just triggered the apocalypse.

“Rise and shine, Ginger,” I lean against the wall. “You’ve got ten seconds before I break this door down and carry you out wrapped in your sheets like some kind of gothic breakfast burrito.”

Silence. I smirk. I know this game.

“Ten. Nine. Eight—”

The door swings open mid-countdown, and I am greeted by a very grumpy, sleep-drunk Mira, her hair a chaotic mess, one of my black shirts slipping off her shoulder.

“You,” she rasps, voice still asleep, “are the worst part of my morning.”

“Still,” I drawl, tilting my head, “you opened the door.”

“Because you count like a fucking psychopath.”

“Iama psychopath.” I grin under the mask. “Now, come on. You have earned a croissant. Or ten. I’m not one to comment.”

She sighs so hard you would think I just asked her to walk to Paris to get it. She flips me off and disappears back inside to get dressed.

Fifteen minutes later, we are tucked into a secluded corner of the hotel café. The scent of coffee lingers in the air like a warm fog, thick and rich. Mira stirs her oat milk latte absentmindedly, staring at it like it might betray her.

Across from her, I pull up my mask just enough to sip my black coffee—because anything else is blasphemy in my honest opinion—and watch her with an amused tilt of my head.

“You know,” I muse, “for someone who fought like a wild animal last night, you are very delicate with that spoon.”

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