Page 38 of Whispers of Ruin

Good. That is exactly what I want.

“You think I’m a monster, Mira?” I ask, “Because you do not know what monsters are capable of.”

Her breath hitches again, and I can see the struggle in her eyes—part of her still wants to fight, but the rest of her knows I am not playing anymore.

Every inch of me is focused on her—on the way she is reacting, the way she is fighting it even though she craves it. The way her eyes are still burning with defiance, even though they are caught in my grip.

“You believe you know what you want? What does it mean to push me to this point?”

She tries to look away, but I stop her. I force her to stay with me, in the storm we have created.

“You asked for this side of me, for the beast you think I am.” I whisper. “Don’t be so sure you will survive it.”

Her chest is rising faster, and I see the fight leave her eyes. I let go of her chin, my fingers trailing down her neck, feeling the quick beats of her pulse. My hand pauses at the base of her throat, pressing down just enough to make her gasp.

“I know you are just dying to make me lose control.”

She shakes her head. I can feel her submission, her surrender, even if she is still trying to deny it. Her mouth parts, her breath is shallow. I know—deep down—that she wants it. Wantsme. Wants to feel this power, this dominance, though it terrifies her.

“Say it,” I say in a dark and dangerous way. “Say you want me, say youneedme. Because there is no turning back now. Once I’ve taken you, you will never be the same.”

I see it in her eyes—the vulnerability, the pure desire that has been buried beneath all her resistance. It is like a switch flipped, and she is no longer fighting me. She is giving in, whether she likes it or not. Damn, I cannot hold back anymore.

I lean down. “You’re mine now, little fox. You’re mine to break. And I’ll break you, piece by piece, until there isnothingleft but the echo of what I’ve done.”

I take the time to turn her head toward the body lying beside her. I want her to look at her mistake, to realize the extent of all her actions, as foolish as they may have been.

My hands move over her, fingers dragging along the curve of her hips before I tear the satin dress from her body, stripping her bare to my sight. A sharp inhale, her spine bowing, her skin rising in goosebumps—she feels it. The danger. The inevitable.

I seize her ass with both hands, digging in hard, not caring if it hurts—only that she won’t forget the way it felt. She lets out a strangled gasp as her thighs clench shut, caught between pain and craving.

She thought playing with fire would be fun. Now she will learn what it means to burn.

What have I done with my life to end up here, caught in this spiraling chaos of degradation and torment?

I close my eyes, trying to escape the gravity of this reality crushing me, still each image cuts deeper, more relentless. Just days ago, I was content, immersed in the calm of my art gallery, a world where the frenzy of the outside world felt distant, almost unreal.

I advised wealthy clients, those hollow beings who wandered in, desperate to adorn their meaningless lives with something of value. I watched as the Victorias complimented paintings they did not understand, pretending they had passions beyond their wealth and gossip. Meanwhile, their Reginalds played the part of attentive husbands, offering polite ‘yes, yes’ and ‘no, no,’ when in truth, their minds were elsewhere—thinking of Chloe, the little escort they’d just spent the night with, relishing the fleeting connection that felt more real to them than the stale lives they led.

I had always found it all so absurd, and yet, in this moment, I ache for it—the ridiculousness of it all. My pretentious clients,their empty compliments, their hollow chatter about things they could never truly grasp. I miss the laughter with Zoey, the quietude of my apartment, untouched by the storm that now tears through my life. I miss the monotony, the simplicity of it.

Could Xan really live amidst such banality? To wake up one morning with nothing more than the soft light of dawn spilling over the floor, a dog at his feet, a cup of coffee warming his hands, and a book in his lap as he watches the world go by through a window.

The thought feels oneiric. He is made for danger, for things that thrive in the shadows. Still, in these moments with him, I see a side of myself I never knew existed—fragments of who I am, now awakened from a long slumber. It is as though he is peeling back layers of me I thought I had buried, and with each revelation, I am caught between resistance and surrender.

I am yanked back into the brutal reality of the moment by the sharp sting of his palm striking my skin. A sudden, searing heat blooming across my flesh.

Seriously?

“As if that’s going to change anything.”

Another blow lands, harder this time, the impact stealing my breath. He is not stopping. Are wereallydoing this?

“When I thought you couldn’t get any more psychotic, you come up with a punishment straight out of the Dark Ages!”

“Maybe your dear father should have given you a few more when you were young. Might have saved you from being such a fucking pain.”

That’s it.

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