Page 49 of Whispers of Ruin

After several hours of laughter, whispers, and just enough poor decisions to call it a proper night, Zoey—true to her form—had indulged in a few more drinks than me. Especially knowing it was all on Xan’s tab. I, ever the slightly more responsible one, stuck to three delicate flutes of sparkling wine. Just enough to hush the swirl of emotions inside me, but not enough to drown them completely.

As Zoey swayed off toward her apartment with a slurred “text me when you get laid,” I sent her home to sleep off the three—or maybe six—extra glasses she definitely did not need.

Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the weight of the day finally peeling off my chest—but as I step out of the cab and climb the stairs, I feel a curious flutter of excitement at the thought of finding Xan waiting for me.

Could we ever live a life like this? The kind where you unlock the door, toss your keys in a bowl, and call out, “Honey, I’m home!” without irony or bloodstains?

I turn the knob slowly, half-expecting something to leap out at me—like a dramatic squirrel with a vendetta or Xan holding a flamethrower made of Julian’s underwear. What I find instead still knocks the breath out of me.

An aisle of rose petals. Crimson, fragrant, some absurd scene from a romance film we would both laugh at in any other context. I blink. Once. Twice. Then smile.

Of course.

Leave it to the emotionally constipated assassin to turn my apartment into a florist’s fever dream.

I tiptoe forward, heart fluttering with a ridiculous mix of excitement and suspense, ready to find Xan sprawled across the bed like some vintage romance novel cover—shirtless, draped in a bear faux fur with a glass of whiskey and a fireplace roaring behind him.

As I follow the trail of rose petals deeper into the apartment, an eerie sound reaches my ears—a soft, muffled squeak. Curious and somewhat alarmed, I creep toward the bedroom door, whichhangs slightly ajar. Candlelight spills out in flickering waves, casting mystical golden shadows into the hallway.

I push the door open with a mix of caution and anticipation, my breath stopping the second I lay eyes on Xan—bare chest rising and falling with the lazy rhythm of a man who knows he has already won. His skin catches the candlelight, every line of him impossibly perfect and infuriatingly calm, his infamous mask still in place.

I actually find myself enjoying it tonight. There is something maddeningly hot about the mystery. He will take it off when he is ready… although I am aching for that moment more than I would like to admit.

“Well, hello, stranger,” I purr, voice dipped in velvet and champagne.

He offers no reply. Just lifts his chin slightly, eyes glinting through the mask, and jerks his head toward the far side of the room. I follow his gaze.

That’s when I see it—when I seehim.

Julian. There. Tied to one of my kitchen chairs as some grotesque display, his mouth sealed shut with layers of duct tape, his panicked little whimpers now making perfect, nauseating sense. He is shirtless, already bleeding—thin slices carved into his shoulders like cruel invitations. But it is the message scrawled in blood across his abdomen that steals my breath.

#2

At first, I fail to understand. The number stares back at me, until finally, I see it —the absurd little gift bow perched on top of his head like a final insult. And suddenly, it clicks.

This is the second gift.

The first was the eye of the man who attacked me at the gala, wrapped up like some gruesome token of devotion. And nowthis—Julian, the man who sold me off without a flicker of guilt, bound and trembling, offered like a sacrifice on a silver altar.

This is Xan’s idea of justice. Of romance. Of love.

And I have never felt so truly touched.

I turn slowly, pulse still fluttering, only to find Xan already beside me—silent, a shadow summoned by vengeance itself. He offers no words, just lifts his arm and presents a knife I have never seen before.

The blade catches the dim candlelight like a shard of starlight—sleek, retractable, lethally elegant. Along its edge lies an inscription carved deep into the steel.

To Serve the Unseen.

The hilt is obsidian-dark, cool against my skin, crowned with a gold-etched emblem I recognize instantly—the Order’s seal; a T encircled in ritualistic precision. The moment I wrap my hand around it, a tremor of power coils through me. A knowing. A claiming. Like a veil has been lifted. Like every scar etched into my spirit is sharpening into armor.

With this weapon, I am no longer a prey.

I am the reckoning. I am the finality. I am the answer to every man who has ever mistaken my body for a battlefield.

“Just for you,” Xan murmurs softly into my ear, his fingers threading through my hair, the touch gentle yet possessive as he inhales deeply its scent.

Normally, I might have flinched, found the gesture unsettling, too intimate, too strange. But in this world we’ve woven, where the lines between tenderness and dominance blur, it is nothing but natural. His presence, a dark pull I cannot escape, seems to demand this closeness, this connection.

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