Page 71 of Whispers of Ruin

That is when I know.

It’s him. It has to be. The man standing over me, the only one reckless enough to savor this moment in the middle of a ritual soaked in blood and madness… is Xan.

His finger—god, his delightful finger—trails across my skin with agonizing patience, leaving fire in its wake. I shudder, the tremor starting at my scalp and rippling all the way downbetween my thighs, helpless to the way my body reacts to him, even now, especially now.

He draws a path along the dip of my collarbone while his presence devours me in silence. Every inch of contact with a slow-burning brand. He is trying to remind me who I belong to without saying a damn thing.

I feel his breath first, a predator savoring every heartbeat of the moment—warm and maddening—ghosting between the curve of my breasts. Then come the kisses.

He trails them down the center of my chest following a sacred map etched into my torso, and each one ignites a spark that threatens to set my entire soul in flame. My breath catches when he pauses just above the cut—my wound, my offering, my curse—I swear time halts with him.

He kisses there, right above the place where the pain still lingers. It is gentle, a twisted apology wrapped in affection. I do not know whether to cry or laugh or drag him up by the collar and scream at him for making me feel so much while I am still blindfolded and bleeding.

Of course it is Xan.

Only he would think this was the time for tenderness. Only he would make the abyss feel like home.

As he reaches the beginning of my wound, I feel it—his tongue. Warm. Slow. Sinfully deliberate dipping into the open slit of my skin, tasting divinity itself.

A sound escapes me. Barely audible, involuntary—and it yanks me out of the daze he is pulling me into.

What the hell is happening to me?

I can feel him—quiteliterally—drinking me from the inside out. The sensation is, without question, the strangest thing I have ever experienced… yet, somehow, it is also one of the most devastatingly satisfying. It is like every nerve in my core has been rewired to worship him at this exact moment.

There is no metaphor left—I am giving myself to him, blood, body, and soul. No games, no illusions. Just me, laid bare and bleeding on a slab of ancient rock with him feasting on my surrender.

A part of me never wants this euphoric ritual to end. God help me, all I want right now is to grab his hand and take him back to my room like some delirious lunatic, just so he can show me what else that sinful tongue of his is capable of.

If it can turn agony into pleasure with nothing but a flick against torn flesh, I can only fantasize about what it does when the stakes are not about knives and ceremony, but lust and indulgence.

Forget demonic rites and hard stones—I want soft sheets, locked doors, and his mouth tracing paths that have everything to do with pure desire. I want to trade the chill of this boulder for the burn of his skin against mine.

His mouth finds the hollow of my throat, tongue tracing slow, possessive patterns as though he is branding me with every stroke. I arch beneath him, helpless against the ache building in my pussy. My breath stutters when he bites down, just hard enough, and I swear I could unravel from that alone.

His hand tightens around my chest, teasing, wanting to hear me beg. Geez, I might. The warmth of his breath against my skin is unbearable, each exhale a whisper of promise I am desperate to believe. I do not know if I want him to stop or to ruin me completely. Maybe both. Maybe that is the point.

He dips lower, dangerously close to the place Lucian carved into me, and I brace myself for another taste of that torturous euphoria.

However, the moment his tongue brushes against my wound again, a low, mocking chuckle escapes his mask. It is subtle—barely more than a breath—but it coils through the air like smoke and freezes something in me.

That laugh… it’s wrong. Too smug. Too self-satisfied.

A slow dread crawls up my spine. The sound does not match Xan—there is no warmth in it, no reverence. It is only cruel.

My breath hitches.

Oh my God.

That is not him. That is notmymonster.

Whoever it is, he is enjoying this way too much.

The hand on my breast grows rougher, more mechanical, squeezing as if testing ripeness. My body lights up in a surge of raw, red flares.

This is officially not Xan.

The pressure of the glove shifts, and there is no warmth left. No pulse. Just cold leather and a stranger’s breath, panting hardagainst my stomach, my pain fueling him. My chest tightens as panic claws its way through the haze of heat and confusion.

---