Page 50 of Whispers of Ruin

His hands slide across my body, each movement slow and deliberate, as I stand there, poised, staring down at Julian who’s sobbing so loudly I am pretty sure he is auditioning for the role of a gender-switchMoaning Myrtle. His tears are pouring so hard, it’s like he is trying to drown us all in his own fucking guilt—I’m half-expecting a lifeguard to show up and throw him a pity float.

“Stare into his eyes, Mira. Show him the woman you have become, and the one you’re about to be. A power is flowing through you—prove to him he was wrong, that the greatest mistake of his life, hislastmistake, was underestimating you.”

I can feel it now, a strength building inside me, a kind of cold resolve. The absurdity of it all strikes me—there he is, breaking down, while I am standing tall, embracing this twisted evolution of myself, ready to turn the page.

He moves in behind me with a dark, simmering grace, his chest pressing strongly to my back as one hand curls around my breast. His thumb kneads small, delicate circles around my nipple. It is not just a touch; it is a quiet claim, a way of sayingI’m here, and I’m not letting go.The other slips around to guide mine, his touch patient, possessive, and maddeningly skilled. Our fingers wrap together over the cool handle of the knife, andthe weight of it in my palm suddenly feels electric. His breath skims my neck, warm, a lover whispering sins instead of sweet nothings.

Slowly, almost reverently, he leads it forward until the cold steel brushes Julian’s cheek. A teasing caress at first. Then again—this time in reverse. However, the second stroke is no longer gentle. The edge bites through his skin, enough for blood to bead and trickle down his neck.

At the sight of the cut we’ve just inflicted, my body arches instinctively, spine curving as my lower back presses against Xan’s already hard cock behind me—a desperate plea for grounding, for connection. A breath slips from my lips, rich with unholy satisfaction—unspoken, but screaming with desire.

I take firmer control of the blade, dragging it from the curve of Julian’s neck down to the center of his abdomen. The pressure is intentional—enough to make him flinch, enough to remind him he no longer owns me. When I reach the ridges of his stomach, I angle the knife, pressing deeper, testing the resistance of flesh that once thought itself impenetrable.

Behind me, I hear the soft rasp of a zipper being undone, the quiet unveiling of a desire that has been caged far too long. Xan frees himself, thick with anticipation, his breath brushing my shoulder. A bomb waiting to explode.

“God, Mira… you’re fucking unbelievable. I have seen nothing more devastatingly beautiful than you wielding that blade like it was born from your very bones.”

A twisted sort of pride coats his words.

“I have seen beauty before, but this… this is power. It’s pure. It’s real. And it’s all you, my little fox.”

A heat rushes through me at his words, curling around and tightening low in my belly. I have never felt so seen, so desired for the parts of me that were always quiet. My fingers tighten on the handle of the knife with hunger. I turn my head just slightly, a smirk pulling my lips.

“I’m an artist, Xan. You should know that by now—after all that time you spent watching me in the gallery.”

He leans in, whispering against the shell of my ear.

“I wasn’t just watching, I was studying. Every brushstroke, every line you drew… they told me a story. But nothing compares to what you are painting right now.”

His hand tightens ever so slightly on my waist, grounding me.

“This is your masterpiece, Mira. Every mark will be yours to create. His blood will be your paint, and his screams your symphony. You are the artist, and he will be nothing but your darkest realization.”

I kneel in front of Julian like I’m about to give a prayer, except this time, the offering is pain. I tap the blade against his thigh while he’s trembling, sweat soaking through what is left of his shirt, eyes wide and whimpering like a gutted animal.

Pathetic.

“You used to run your damn mouth non-stop,remember? All that confidence, all those empty promises. Where’s that big talk now?” I smirk. “Oh right. Buried under the duct tape and the desperation.”

He tries to shift, but the ropes bite into him. His chair creaks, feet scraping the floor in useless protest.

I sigh dramatically. “You’re twitching like a damn dying fish. Honestly Julian, it’s rude. This is supposed to be my special moment.”

With no more thinking, I stab the knife clean into the thick of his thigh. Not just a prick—no, I twist it in like I am carving my initials into a tree trunk. He lets out a choked scream under the tape, his eyes rolling, body convulsing in sheer panic.

“There. See?” I say, twisting once more for good measure. “Nowyou’re paying me attention.”

Blood pours from the wound, spreading across his jeans as I wipe my blade on his collar and rise to my feet slowly.

I glance back at Xan, giving him a sweet, almost innocent smile.

“He twitched too much, baby. Look, I fixed it.”

Did I just call himbaby?

Maybe it is the alcohol loosening the last threads of inhibition, though for once, I feel I am finally slipping into the skin I was always meant to wear—one that is in control, no longer begging for permission to exist.

The urge to hit him spirals into something feral. My palm lands again and again, until his cheek splits and blood splatters ink across my fingers. The sound—wet, savage echoes, a violent hymn that drowns out the past and baptizes me into the destiny I am about to fulfill.

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