Page 67 of Whispers of Ruin

I move the chair I had wedged against the door with slow precision, muscles tight with annoyance, keeping every sound to a minimum. No one wakes her but me.

I crack open the door just wide enough to see who thought they could knock like that and walk away untouched.

They’ve got three seconds to explain themselves before I stop being polite.

At the door stands a boy—sixteen, maybe seventeen at most. Still soft around the edges, all wide eyes and twitchy fingers. I swallow the urge to slam the door in his face or, better yet, break his nose clean. Because I know that look. I wore it once too,though I was half his size and twice as scared when they dragged me through these halls. He is just the messenger; a pawn caught in the turmoil of obligation.

Still, my voice comes out low and cold, laced with sleep and irritation.

“What the hell do you want?”

He freezes as if I asked him to solve a complex equation with his life on the line. His brain stalls and that is when I catch it—his gaze flickers past me, subtle as a whisper.

Not subtle enough for me.

I turn just enough to see what he is looking at.

Mira.

Fast asleep on her stomach, one leg curled up, the blanket twisted beneath her. And yeah—bare skin from her ass to her feet, glowing in the dim light, reminding a classical painting with a modern twist.

My jaw tightens.

Because now I am not just tired.

I’m fucking murderous.

I grab him by the throat and lift until he is barely grazing the floor on the tips of his toes, choking on the weight of my wrath.

“The only reason I am not gouging out your eyes right now—and believe me, I have grown quite fond of the practice, especially on men dumb enough to glance at her like she’s meat—is because I know, at your age, your cockisyour brain. Iget it. I have been there. Alone, desperate, stuck in these walls long enough and even the curve of a chair leg starts looking seductive.”

I lean in, voice velvet and violence.

“But don’t youeverlook at my little fox like that again. In fact—don’t look at any woman that fucking creepy way. Because I swear to every dark god that has ever heard a prayer—your dick will be your next meal.”

The boy immediately lowers his head, hands trembling as he offers me a bundle of white, slightly sheer fabric.

“What exactly am I supposed to do with this?” I ask flatly.

He stammers, voice barely audible. “The Ruler… he asked me to bring this… for your roommate’s initiation… sir.”

My brow lifts. “Roommate?” I echo, venom threading through the word. “Never refer to Mira as anything other than mine. Are we clear?”

He nods so fast I am surprised his head does not fall off, dropping the fabric into my hands before practically sprinting away.

“Hey!” I call after him. He halts mid-escape. “What’s your name, kid?”

“O-… Owen, sir. Can I ask… why?”

I smirk, clearly amused.

“So I can give it to Mira when she wakes. Let her decide your horrible fate herself.”

The boy gives me a frantic nod—his silent, terrified vow he understands, accepts his destiny, and possibly his doom. What he does not know is that I have no intention of saying a damn thing to Mira. But the fear alone should serve as a lifelong lesson. I chuckle quietly, amused by the absurd threat I just made.

For a split second—one dangerous, flickering second—I catch myself thinking: if I’d had a father, maybe that is the kind of joke he would have made. The kind of half-violent, half-affectionate lesson a man passes down when he wants to scare you straight, yet still lets you laugh through the trauma.

Then it hits me—maybe that is exactly the father I would be. The kind who growls, threatens, makes boys tremble in doorways, all in the name of protecting what is his. And I don’t know if that is comforting or horrifying. Probably both. But no child deserves to be a mirror of me.

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