Page 18 of Whispers of Ruin

“But you know what, little fox?” His voice is softer now, more treacherous in its restraint. “You may not be on my arm tonight, not officially. However, it is clear to everyone in this room right now—youbelongto me.”

A breath leaves me, something between surrender and relief. For a fleeting, impossible moment, I exist. Not as a ghost, not as a muted version of myself, but as something vivid, something real. My head feels heavy, my body light, and I fight the urge to rest against the shoulder of his impeccably tailored black suit.

I am hypnotized. Like a serpent lulled into submission by a song only it can hear, I listen. I obey. I yield.

And I hate it. I should hate it. Ihaveto hate it.

But I don’t.

I don’t, because euphoria has already slithered its way into my veins, curling into a dark, primal force.

That is when I see Julian.

Standing at the threshold of the dance floor, his posture stiff, his hands clenched into fists. His frustration ripples through the space, barely contained.

Of course,nowhe notices me. Now, when another man has stripped me bare without ever touching my skin. Now, when someone else has awakened something in me he never could.

Xan sees it too. He starts laughing—low, quiet, predatory.

“That’s it,” he whispers, watching my eyes focused on Julian’s growing anger. “Show him who you really are, Mira. Show him what he is losing—what he will never have again.”

His fingers press just slightly at my waist, enough to make my pulse stutter.

“Because I won’t let you dance with another man… Ever”

A pause. A promise.

“You belong to me on this dance floor,” he breathes. “And for the rest of our lives.”

As the song fades into silence, the burden of the world crashes down on my shoulders once more. Xan takes my hand, and for a fleeting second, I think he might hold onto it. Instead, he turns, giving it back to Julian. The warmth of his skin vanishes, leaving behind nothing but a hollow ache.

“You should keep her on a leash before one of these men kidnaps her just for himself,” Xan sneers, slipping back into the arrogant, cruel persona he wore so effortlessly earlier.

Julian chuckles, shaking his head.

“She is gorgeous, I’ll give you that. But the second they’ll try living with her, they’ll let her go soon enough.”

Xan muscles constrict, the vein in his neck throbbing. His hands clench at his sides, his jaw locked. He wants to hit him. I can see it. Feel it. Still, he restrains himself, forcing the fire in his veins to smolder instead of erupting.

With a deep breath, he turns away—walking back toward the bar with an air of careless ease, as if none of it ever mattered. As if he doesn’t still crave the feel of me under his hands. I should be relieved that this is over, that I am free from whatever spell I had fallen under. But it does not come as freedom. Just the heavy ache of grief—like something precious has been ripped from me, and I have no choice but to let it go.

Julian’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me toward him.

“Come,” he says, already lost in his own thoughts. “One of the senior partners wants to talk to me upstairs. This is it.” His voice is brimming with anticipation. “I’m finally getting the offer of being a partner. The others all said they went through the same thing before their promotion. You will wait in a lounge outside his office. Someone will keep you company.”

The girl’s warning echoes in my mind.

Don’t let them get you alone.

Every instinct screams at me to refuse, to make up some excuse, but Julian’s grasp intensifies, daring me to resist. So I climb the stairs, dread curling around my ribs with each step. I barely hear the music anymore; my ears filled with the pounding of my heart. The walls are lined with portraits of men—generations of power and wealth immortalized in gold frames.Their eyes seem to follow me, judging, knowing something that I don’t.

At the top of the staircase, a man greets Julian like an old friend. His boss, I assume. He barely acknowledges me before dragging him away into an adjacent office. I exhale shakily; my nerves frayed and sink into one of the opulent green velvet sofas in the room I waited.

The lounge is extravagant, its decor meant to intimidate, to remind you of your place. The music is still in the background, muffled, but persistent. I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the anxiety brewing in my stomach.

Without notice—icy fingers, firm and possessive, press my exposed thigh. I jolt, a small gasp slipping past my lips.

“Easy now, honey. It’s just me.”

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