Page 58 of His Ruin
She’s mused and ruffled from sleep, a true fucking vision. I love seeing her in my space, conforming to the darkness as if she owns me.
She does.
Body, mind, and soul.
“What are you doing?” She asks.
I pad over to her, leaning my hands on the bed as I kiss her forehead. “I have a meeting with some investors. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
She hums to herself, lifting a hand to slide her fingers through my curls. “You don’t look like you’re going to a meeting with investors.”
I chuckle, that bitterness swirling in my gut as I lie to her. “I need to invest in some suits.”
“That would be a good idea,” she muses.
I kiss her sweetly, making every movement slow and tender before pulling away. Her warmth dances across my lips. “I’ll be back soon. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she responds as she pulls the covers up to her chin and closes her eyes. “Bring coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sweat clings to my brow, dripping down my face as I pant heavily. My body has become accustomed to the training, pushing me past my breaking point until I’ve hardened myself into something frightening. Even the torture tactics have no effect on me anymore: waterboarding, being beaten within an inch of my life, and anything psychologically draining have all been conquered over time and dedication. It’s my best-kept secret, and something I know would send Melody into shock if she found out.
What I’ve endured isn’t for the weak, and it’s left a lasting scar on me. But it’s only surface-level. I was built for this.
As I leer over the enforcer, a young guy who can’t be barely over nineteen, my fists drip with his blood. He’s been trained for far longer than I, but nothing can satiate the darkness that’s kept me in its clutches for years. I’m solely focused on chasing that high—the restfulness of death as it lingers like a reaper over the man I have pinned to the mat.
Sergey, my trainer, steps into my line of sight. He’s a hulking man with wide shoulders and thick arms covered in symbolic tattoos. He carries an air that screams danger—a quiet, coiled stillness that makes the room bend subtly to him. He’s beentrained in the underworld since he could first hold a gun without dropping it under its own weight.
He crouches down, resting his elbows on his knees as he tilts his head at the boy breathing raggedly under me. The sound wheezes past bloodied lips, making Sergey’s lip curl. “Do me a favor,Smerti.”
Death.
The personification that’s taken over me since the very beginning.
“Yes.” I breathe, my fists tightening at my sides as the fresh cuts and bruises sting.
“Get rid of him,” My trainer instructs, his tone dark as he rises above us. “Ten years and he’s still a disappointment. We’ve done all we can for him.”
My eyes shift up, something vile curling around my being. “Can I?”
Sergey motions with a tattooed hand. “Think of it as practice for the big day. I won’t tolerate any weakness.”
The boy below me sucks in a croaked breath, the light fading from him. “Please…I can’t…die.”
I crouch down, resting my elbows on my knees as my head tilts. “It’s nothing personal.”
His lips wobble. “No…please—”
“Take a trophy,” Sergey suggests, his back facing us as he observes the table lined with knives and guns. “Would you like to take your pick?”
“No,” I decide, staring at my target. “I don’t need a weapon.”
“Ah,” my trainer muses. “Your first kill, and it will be by your hands. It’s poetic, no?”
Poetic. This isn’t poetry or fate. It’s something that’s built inside of me since the very beginning, banging against the metal confines of my mind like a deranged, rabid animal. It’s a pulse that refuses sedation, a fracture that can’t heal, and a howling wind that only grows stronger with every passing day.
It’s sick bloodlust.
