Page 7 of Whispers of Ruin

Mira’s apartment is not far, and I certainly do not fucking need Lucian to order me to keep an eye on her; I already made her my priority.

I crush the cigarette underfoot as her street comes into view. The gallery’s faint light glimmers through the smog, drawing me in, whether or not I want it to.

Through the side bay window, I watch Mira pull her phone from her left pocket as it softly vibrates. She glances at the screen, her brows knitting in confusion, and starts looking around erratically, searching for something—or someone.

She puts her cellphone back anxiously into the pocket of her blue jeans, which mold perfectly to her ass. I wonder what color her face would turn with my belt tightly circling her neck.

A faint smile creeps onto my face—the girl’s got some balls.

From her expression, I can tell she’s realizing I might actually be innocent, that she might have completely lashed out at the wrong person.

I give her a moment to compose herself, letting her believe it might be over.

But of course, little fox, I’m not going anywhere. I’m the hunter, and you’ll be forever my prey.

Right before closing the gallery’s front door, my phone vibrates again. I freeze, a wave of dread washing over me. I can feel the panic rising deep within, my stomach twisting in knots. I am literally on the verge of throwing up from the anxiety. I take a deep breath and look at the screen.

Oh my God, it’s Zoey. It’s only Zoey.

I cannot help to think that alcohol might actually be the answer right now.

I chuckle softly. Zoey always leaves me torn between rolling my eyes in exasperation or laughing so much my stomach hurts.

The second I step into the Skyline, the city seems to shrink below me. The place is perched high above New York, with floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch across every wall, framing the glowing cityscape. With the smells of sweetened cocktails and leather upholstery, the kind that tells you everything here is polished, curated and expensive.

I make my way through the dimly lit space, my cherry red shiny heels clicking against the marble floors. Neon lights in soft pinks and blues buzz from the bar, reflecting off the mirrored surfaces, creating faint halos around everyone.

The crowd is alive, a mix of fancy suits and slinky dresses, each person sipping on glasses filled with colorful concoctions that look too pretty to drink. A soft, bass-heavy track pulses in the background, just loud enough to make my heart sync with it. I peek toward the bar—it is sleek, black granite with gold accents, the bartenders moving like choreographed dancers.

I head toward the far corner where the windows meet. That is where the real magic happens. The entire city sprawls out before me, lights stretching endlessly, their glow fighting off the night’s darkness. It is breathtaking, overwhelming in its enormity.

I try to focus, to lose myself in the rhythm of beauty, but something still feels… eerie. My eyes keep drifting, scanning faces, corners, and shadows as if my body knows something my mind doesn’t. I shake my head, laughing at myself.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter, maybe it is just the strange energy of the night. Too many people, too many flashing lights. Yet, the tension curls low in my abdomen.

Then it happens again. Thatfeeling.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a figure—tall, dark, and dominant—just standing there, watching. I whip my head around to look, but there is nothing. Just the crowd, a crush of bodies pressed together, all moving to the hard beat thundering through the room.

I smile nervously, brushing it off.

You are not Ted Bundy’s next victim, Mira. Calm down.

Even as I try to convince myself, I cannot help, but looking over my shoulder again. Before I can shake it off, someone steps into my space, too close for comfort. He smells like cheap cologne and vodka, and his grin is wide, way too wide.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says, leaning in, his breath warm against my ear.

I take a step back, forcing a polite smile.

“Thanks, but I’m not interested. I have a boyfriend.”

“Aw, come on,” he presses, his hand brushing my waist. “He’s not here, is he?”

I feel my stomach churn, my pulse quickening.

“Seriously, no. Please.”

But he doesn’t back off. His grip tightens, and I search around for Zoey in panic, for anyone, but the crowd is too thick.

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