Chapter 10, Mira
The city lights blur past in streaks of gold and orange as Xan drives, his grip white-knuckled on the wheel. The speedometer creeps higher, but I barely feel the momentum. My body is frozen, locked in place, the blood drying on my skin like a second layer of flesh. It is not mine.
The scent of iron is strong, suffocating. My dress—once sleek and elegant—now clings to my body in wet patches, ruined. The fabric sticks to my thighs, my stomach, my chest. My hands shake, my breath comes in shallow bursts, still I cannot seem to move. To speak. To do anything but stare at the dark smudges of red staining my fingers that won’t come off. I rub my palms against my thighs, desperate to make it disappear. But the more I scrub, the deeper it seems to sink in. The more real it becomes.
I can still hear it. The gurgling sound as the man bled out on top of me. The wet squelch of flesh being torn. The ragged gasps as Xan ripped his eye from its socket.
A sound escapes me—caught between a sob and a whimper. He refuses to look at me. Says nothing. Just drives.
The silence in the car is a noose, tightening around my throat with every second that passes. I know I should say something—anything—but what words could possibly fit?
How do you talk after witnessing that? After being a part of it? Because I was. I might not have held the knife, but I felt the life drained from that man’s body. I felt it. And I never looked away.
What does that make me?
The tires screech as Xan takes a sharp turn, snapping me out of my thoughts. My body lurches sideways. The seatbelt digs into my chest, keeping me anchored.
He is driving recklessly, pushing the car to its limits, weaving through traffic with lethal ease. Obviously, he has done this before. Panic flutters weakly in my stomach.
“Where are we going…” My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.
He exhales sharply through his nose, fingers flexing around the wheel.
“Somewhere safe.”
I swallow.
“Safe from who?”
Finally, he glances at me. Just for a second. But it is enough. His eyes through his mask—cold, dark, unreadable—show no comfort.
“No one yet,” he says. “But that will change soon.”
I shudder.
The car speeds through the night, and I press my forehead against the cool glass, watching as the world blurs past.
I should be relieved that I made it out of there alive. That he got me out of there. Yet all I can think about is Julian. The way he looked at me when he led me up those stairs. Like he knew. Like he had already accepted the cost of what he had done. Did he knew what they were going to do to me? Or did he just not care?
I close my eyes, my belly churning. I loved him. I shared a life with him. And in the end, I was just another price he was willing to pay. The ugliness of the world rises in my chest, twisting, curling into something that doesn’t feel like grief.
It’s hate.
The car jerks to a stop, yanking me from my thoughts once again. I blink, disoriented. We are in front of an old, run-down building, the kind people don’t ask questions about. The neon sign above the entrance flickers weakly, casting eerie shadows on the pavement. Xan kills the engine and turns to me.
“Inside. Now.”
I hesitate, my pulse hammering.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“Mira, don’t make me carry you because I promise you, it will not be gentle.”
The way he says my name—so casual, so familiar—makes my skin prickle. He gets out first, slamming the door shut before stalking around to my side. I scramble to unbuckle my seatbelt, fumbling with the latch as he wrenches my door open.
“Move.”
I move. The second my feet hit the pavement, reality slams into me violently. My knees buckle. The ground rushes up to meet me, but before I can hit it, firm hands seize my arms, hauling me upright. Xan’s face is inches from mine.
“You’re in shock,” he mutters.
I let out a shaky breath, my fingers curling into the front of his shirt without thinking. His body tenses. I should let go. But I don’t. I can’t. This is unraveling, I am breaking apart at the seams, and the only thing anchoring me to reality is him. The smell of leather and blood. The raw, undeniable strength he has inside of him. I trail my hand up his chest, feeling the rapid, thunderous beat of his heart beneath my fingertips.
As much as I wish otherwise, mine is just as out of control. The night itself is to blame, of course—but more than that, it is him. The searing heat of his body, the electric charge pulsing between us. He is intoxicating, overwhelming, and I don’t know if I actually want to pull away. Maybe I could not even if I tried. The last shred of energy I have left is spent on keeping my gaze locked onto his.
Without thinking, I grab his hand and pin it against my chest, forcing him to feel the erratic pounding beneath my ribs. His breath hitches, and I feel the subtle shift in his muscles, the tension winding like a predator holding itself back. I press harder, refusing to let go, silently begging him to understand. I want more—I want his hands to move, to explore, to claim me in a way that leaves no room for doubt.
I want him to ruin me.
He remains still, a living fortress of self-control. Except his body betrays him. I feel his dick, hard against my thigh. A silent confession in his pants. He knows I know. A sensual, measured roll of my hips against him, a wordless promise that hunger is not one-sided.
Still, he doesn’t move or react. Just clenches his jaw, as if forcing himself to withstand the pull between us. I reach for him, my hand sliding lower, needing to feel more—to take what I crave—but before I can, his fingers close brutally around my wrist.
“Do not start something you cannot finish, Mira.”
The words slice through the dense atmosphere; a warning wrapped in steel. My head jerks up, offended.
“Excuse me? Who the fuck are you to decide what I can or cannot handle?”
Xan exhales sharply, clearly exasperated.
“What happened in the library? That was nothing. Just a taste. You are not ready for what I would do to you.”
My fury ignites, white-hot and violent. I shove him, slapping his torso with a trembling hand.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me! You think you do because you have stalked my every move, but you are sooo blind. You know what? I… I fucking hate you!”
He huffs out a laugh, dry and taunting.
“You are such a brat.” His smirk is infuriating. “Now that I think about it, maybe I should have left you there. Let that bastard take you like a worthless little whore, then send you crawling back to your garbage boyfriend—the one who respects a prostitute more than his own woman.”
My palm strikes his face before I even register moving. The crack echoes like a gunshot in the quiet.
“And you think you’re better than him?” My voice is pure venom. “Hiding behind that mask like some untouchable fucking fever dream. Oh, look at me, I’m a big, scary killer. I’m dangerous. I’m so fucking mysterious.” I sneer. “You know what you really are, Xan? A fucking coward!”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know I have pushed him too far. He growls, a deep, animalistic sound, before grabbing me in one swift, brutal motion.
“Baby, I’m your worst nightmare—and your best addiction.”
In an instant, I am thrown over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
“Put me down!” I scream, pounding my fists against his back. He does not even flinch. “You piece of shit! Let me go!”
No one comes. No one stops him. I keep thrashing, but it is useless. He carries me effortlessly through the door, stepping into an unfamiliar place. The air changes, sterile and cold. My stomach twists. The walls are a pristine, lifeless white, illuminated by dim, soulless lights. Everything is precise, calculated. It is the kind of place that does not belong to a man.
It belongs to a monster.
It is the kind of home you find in a psychological thriller. The kind of setting that makes you realize you might not walk out alive. The IKEA ‘I Have Severe Mental Issues’ collection. And I am trapped in it.
Xan leads me through a narrow hallway, past a door with a busted lock, into a room with a single bed, a chair, and the bare necessities for a bathroom in the corner.
“Shower,” he orders, releasing me right on the floor.
I stay still. He rubs a hand down his mask, his patience fraying.
“Mira, get in that damn shower, or I swear I will throw you in myself. And trust me, I have no problem knocking you out to make it happen.”
“Would that make you feel better?” My voice shakes. “Stripping me down again and washing your mess off of me?”
His expression darkens. “My mess?”
“Yes! Yours! I never asked for this—I certainly never asked for you!”
A silent strain settles in his posture, but he remains unmoved. I laugh at the edge of hysteria.
“You act like you saved me, but you just made me yours instead of his. This was your plan all along, was is not, you fucking psychopath?”
His hand wraps around my throat, slamming me against the wall with a force that steals the breath from my lungs. My vision flickers, my pulse hammering beneath his grip. He leans in, his lips behind his mask grazing my ear as his voice drops to a dark, taunting whisper.
“If you think you are struggling to breathe now, just wait until my cock is buried so deep in your throat you forget what air even tastes like.”
I swallow, my mouth constricting as my vision blurs, my eyes filling with unshed tears. His hands on my neck are without mercy, fingers pressing harshly to remind me who is in control. His voice is low, a slow-burning threat wrapped in velvet.
“I’m going to let you go,” he murmurs as I feel the heat of his breath ghost over my skin. “And you have until the count of three to strip and get in that fucking shower. If you hesitate, I will make you. Understand?”
My stomach clenches. I nod, barely able to breathe.
“One.”
My hands fumble as I turn away from him, my pulse hammering in my ears. I grasp the fabric of my dress, peeling it away with trembling fingers, the weight of his stare burning into my back.
“Two.”
Humiliation inhabits me like a vice, still I force myself to keep moving. The dress slides down my body, pooling at my feet, exposing bare skin to the cool air. My lungs seize mid-inhale as I lift a leg to step into the shower, but suddenly—I freeze.
Am I really doing this? Stripping at the command of a man who has total control over me. Have I really fallen this far? Letting him dictate my every move, disintegrating every ounce of self-respect I once had?
“Tic, tac. Three.”
Before I can react, a fist tangles in my hair, yanking me backward with a cruel pull. A choked gasp rips from my throat as I stumble, collapsing onto my knees. The marble floor is cold against my skin, my muscles locked in place, every ounce of defiance drained from my limbs. His hand cinches more roughly, twisting the strands of my hair between his fingers. A leash—an unbreakable one.
“You think you have choices, little fox?” he breathes, tone dripping with amusement. “Well, you don’t. Not with me.”
Heat floods my veins—anger, fear, darkness crawling inside me. Hating him would be easier. Cleaner. However, the way he restrains me completely, the way he dominates every inch of space between us, makes it impossible to ignore the way my body betrays me.
“Unzip.”
I hesitate, my fingers trembling. His hand constricts enough to make my scalp prickle with pain. He lowers his voice to a near growl.
“I said—unzip.”
Tears spill over as I obey. With shaky movements, I reach up and pull the zipper down. The sound is deafening in the room's silence. The growing bulge strains against his pants, pressing insistently against the fabric, demanding release. Only his boxers still stand as a barrier. I know it won’t be for long, the command should follow soon.
It’s messed up—this whole thing is. And yet, I’m not repulsed. Not even close.
Is my life has spiraled into something so pathetic, so meaningless, that all I crave is to feel wanted? To feel like I still serve a purpose—to someone, to anything.
Right now, I realize how utterly futile my existence has become. If I disappeared forever, who would truly miss me? Zoey, of course. But after that? A father who died when I was seven, nothing but a vague memory wrapped in childhood amnesia. PTSD, they call it. And a mother who always preferred the bottle over me. I have nothing left.
I had Julian—yes, had. But did I ever really have him? How long had he been planning this betrayal? How many moments were lies? The questions exhaust me. Everything exhausts me.
“I don’t know what is going through your head right now,” Xan whispers. “But I need you to stay with me. Just for a moment. I need this, Mira.”
His words should not affect me the way they do, but something about the way he says my name—almost pleading—unsettles me more than any threat ever could.
His free hand moves unexpectedly, fingers brushing my cheek, catching a tear before it falls. The contrast is dizzying, the tenderness of the gesture at complete odds with the way he still tugs at my hair.
Every instinct says to push him away, to fight the second I can. Regardless, I find myself frozen, trapped somewhere between fear and something I refuse to name. My pulse hammers against my ribs as I stare up at him, searching for a trace of the man who wiped my tears only moments ago.
His hold is steady—not harsh, but inescapable. His free hand moves calmly, trailing up my arm, brushing over my skin.
“Say something.”
I can’t.
His fingers tangle deeper in my hair—not in a violent tug, just enough to make me jump. His patience is thinning; I can feel it in the way his muscles coil, in the sharp exhale through his nose. Still, as if the feeling in him shifts, he releases me just enough to let me do it from free will.
A test. I know it. And I hate that some pieces of me want to pass. I lift a trembling hand, hesitating before it lands on his chest. His heartbeat is a steady, heavy drum beneath my fingertips, matching the erratic rhythm of my own.
He watches me, waiting, when I finally whisper, “I don’t know if I can do this...”
Envy flickers in his eyes and instead of pressing, demanding, he leans in.
“Then let me help you.”
It would be a lie to say I don’t ache for him—his body, his cock. The sheer proximity of him is utterly magnetic, and I want to taste every inch of him.
Without releasing my hair, he finally frees his eager length with his other hand. My eyes widen at the sight of it—thick, hard, imposing. A perfect match for the rest of him, every part sculpted and proportional, a masterpiece of raw masculinity. The swollen tip barely grazes my lips, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Open wide for me, Mira.”
Unlike earlier, there is no hesitation. I want this. The perfect escape from the wreckage my life has become. This is my time. This is survival.
My mouth parts as I let the tip drag against it, the heat of his skin igniting fire deep inside me. My tongue flicks over the head, savoring his taste. Before I can take control, he yanks my neck back. I resist, reclaiming my movement as I take him deeper, more than half of his length disappearing into my mouth in one languid, eager stroke.
“Damn, Mira… your mouth was fucking made for me. This is pure perfection.”
His words send a sharp thrill through me, a sinful pleasure that makes my body long for more. I hollow my cheeks, firming my lips around him as I glide up and down his shaft, working him with a paced, hungry rhythm. I want more. I want his control, his dominance—I want him to yank my hair so hard it nearly rips from my scalp.
I want Xan to ruin me.
“I swear to fucking God, there is no way this is real,” he groans, his muscles tensing as pleasure wracks through him.
I can feel it—he’s close. I give him no reprieve, determined to shatter his restraint. His head tilts downward, his dark eyes locking onto mine, and the moment stretches between us, electric, primal.
I wish I could fully see his face, watch every reaction as control slips away. Instead, I keep fixing his gaze so he can see the silent promise in mine—I want to wreck him as much as he is wrecking me.
“You look so fucking beautiful with my cock in your mouth, little fox,” he rasps.
My body trembles at his saying. Each syllable is a balm over the open wounds of today, a twisted comfort in the chaos. My fingers dig into his pants for leverage as I take him even deeper, until my throat stretches around him.
“Don’t be afraid. I know you can take it.”
He is hanging by a thread, dangling at the threshold of surrender. He thrusts forward, the motion rough enough to make my throat clench, my gag reflex kicking in. Panic flares for a brief second, but his hand in my hair, his voice, his presence—all of it anchors me. I adjust, pushing past the instinct to resist.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs. “I told you—I knew you could take it.”
A rush of pride floods me, heady and bewitching.
I have control.
Xan may be the one gripping my hair, but I still hold the reins. I decide when and how he will break.
“Show me, little fox. Show me how much you love this. How much you need my cock to fill you in.”
I obey without thinking, pressing him even deeper, until tears spill freely from my eyes—not from pain, from the sheer force of it all. I am lost in this, lost in him. I suck harder, faster, desperate for his release, for the final moment that will shatter both of us.
His entire body tenses, his breath coming in ragged gasps as his composure crumbles. He tilts his head back as he finally gives in. Heat floods my mouth, thick and hot, spilling past my lips even as I try swallow every drop.
“Fuck—” he exhales, his voice wrecked, heavy with content. “I didn’t think you could get any more beautiful, but with my cum dripping down your face? You’re fucking breathtaking.”
A deep sigh escapes him, the tension melting from his body.
He is spent. And I am satisfied.