Chapter 23, Mira
In the dead hush of night, I jolt awake—heart pounding, breath caught—chased out of sleep by whispers creeping through the room.
I take a few heavy seconds to realize the voices are not foreign. They are hers.
Mira.
Still tangled in sleep, she is caught in another world, her voice soft and broken in places I have never heard before.
I rise slowly, crossing the space between us on bare feet, and lean in just enough to catch the words unraveling from her lips.
“Julian… sorry… Xan… love…”
I don’t quite know what to make of it and though every part of me itches to wake her—to demand answers, to pull the truth from her mouth.
I understand. Of course I do. Regret is a natural ghost to carry after what she has been through, especially when the blood on her hands is still warm.
But she’ll learn.
She will come to see that every crack I made in her world was to let the light in. That all of this—every brutal truth, every sharp twist—was to save her.
Whether or not she knows it yet.
I am snapped out of sleep by two harsh, echoing knocks—loud enough to make the walls flinch. I grit my teeth. Not at the sleep itself—I needed that—but at the sheer audacity of being dragged out of it.
The first thing I do is look at Mira. She is still out cold, lying sideways on the bed, hair tangled in a halo, her face soft for once. Peaceful, but not free. Not really. That piece of shit still haunts her even here, clawing at the corners of her rest.
I move the chair I had wedged against the door with slow precision, muscles tight with annoyance, keeping every sound to a minimum. No one wakes her but me.
I crack open the door just wide enough to see who thought they could knock like that and walk away untouched.
They’ve got three seconds to explain themselves before I stop being polite.
At the door stands a boy—sixteen, maybe seventeen at most. Still soft around the edges, all wide eyes and twitchy fingers. I swallow the urge to slam the door in his face or, better yet, break his nose clean. Because I know that look. I wore it once too, though I was half his size and twice as scared when they dragged me through these halls. He is just the messenger; a pawn caught in the turmoil of obligation.
Still, my voice comes out low and cold, laced with sleep and irritation.
“What the hell do you want?”
He freezes as if I asked him to solve a complex equation with his life on the line. His brain stalls and that is when I catch it—his gaze flickers past me, subtle as a whisper.
Not subtle enough for me.
I turn just enough to see what he is looking at.
Mira.
Fast asleep on her stomach, one leg curled up, the blanket twisted beneath her. And yeah—bare skin from her ass to her feet, glowing in the dim light, reminding a classical painting with a modern twist.
My jaw tightens.
Because now I am not just tired.
I’m fucking murderous.
I grab him by the throat and lift until he is barely grazing the floor on the tips of his toes, choking on the weight of my wrath.
“The only reason I am not gouging out your eyes right now—and believe me, I have grown quite fond of the practice, especially on men dumb enough to glance at her like she’s meat—is because I know, at your age, your cock is your brain. I get it. I have been there. Alone, desperate, stuck in these walls long enough and even the curve of a chair leg starts looking seductive.”
I lean in, voice velvet and violence.
“But don’t you ever look at my little fox like that again. In fact—don’t look at any woman that fucking creepy way. Because I swear to every dark god that has ever heard a prayer—your dick will be your next meal.”
The boy immediately lowers his head, hands trembling as he offers me a bundle of white, slightly sheer fabric.
“What exactly am I supposed to do with this?” I ask flatly.
He stammers, voice barely audible. “The Ruler… he asked me to bring this… for your roommate’s initiation… sir.”
My brow lifts. “Roommate?” I echo, venom threading through the word. “Never refer to Mira as anything other than mine. Are we clear?”
He nods so fast I am surprised his head does not fall off, dropping the fabric into my hands before practically sprinting away.
“Hey!” I call after him. He halts mid-escape. “What’s your name, kid?”
“O-… Owen, sir. Can I ask… why?”
I smirk, clearly amused.
“So I can give it to Mira when she wakes. Let her decide your horrible fate herself.”
The boy gives me a frantic nod—his silent, terrified vow he understands, accepts his destiny, and possibly his doom. What he does not know is that I have no intention of saying a damn thing to Mira. But the fear alone should serve as a lifelong lesson. I chuckle quietly, amused by the absurd threat I just made.
For a split second—one dangerous, flickering second—I catch myself thinking: if I’d had a father, maybe that is the kind of joke he would have made. The kind of half-violent, half-affectionate lesson a man passes down when he wants to scare you straight, yet still lets you laugh through the trauma.
Then it hits me—maybe that is exactly the father I would be. The kind who growls, threatens, makes boys tremble in doorways, all in the name of protecting what is his. And I don’t know if that is comforting or horrifying. Probably both. But no child deserves to be a mirror of me.
That thought alone is enough to strangle the fantasy at the root. I shove it out of my mind, lock the door behind me, and return to the only thing that matters: her.
Before waking my girl up, I take a moment to unfold the sheer bundle of fabric the boy nearly died delivering. Turns out, it is a gown—well, barely. A plunging neckline, a dripping collar of lace, and a train long enough to make Rapunzel consider a haircut.
I have never witnessed a woman’s initiation before. Apparently, there is a dress code—and it is one gust of wind away from indecency. I am not exactly thrilled about the transparency. The idea of anyone else seeing what is mine makes my jaw ache, but I swore I would not make this day about me.
Today is hers only.
And I promised myself I would try just for once, to keep my guard down to a level slightly below feral.
“Morning, little fox. Go ahead—take a minute to wake up and let it sink in: this is not just a dream today either.”
Her lashes lift. That half-asleep glow in her eyes flickers to life the second she sees me. One hand finds its way into my hair.
“I wouldn’t trade this dream for anything,” she whispers.
I smirk, a little too proud of myself. “You’re cheesy.”
She grins, sleep-drunk and smug. “Obviously.”
I am starting to think I am the one still dreaming—because finding love like this, and worse, getting to keep it within the walls of the Order, feels like something out of a twisted fairytale. I used to believe I was built to be alone forever, cycling through fleeting conquests like empty glasses at the end of a long night. But no. Somehow, against all odds, even Xan Hayes gets a shot at happiness… as dark and bloodstained as it may be.