Chapter 17, Mira
Her body is sheer perfection, sculpted as if the gods of beauty themselves had taken their time, carving every dip and curve with divine precision.
I am not a believer—not in gods, not in fate—but right now? I would gladly drop to my knees and worship at the altar of her form without a second thought. If this is blasphemy, then consider me a devoted sinner, because I am absolutely fantasizing about a sacred marble masterpiece, and I have zero regrets.
The fiery copper of her hair glows even in the dim shadows of the room, a beacon against the darkness. However, it is her eyes that hold me captive—pools of quiet suffering, etched with the ghosts of every abandonment she has endured. Yet, beneath the weight of all that pain, there is something new flickering in their depths. A fragile ember of hope, hesitant but undeniable, as if for the first time, she dares to think she is no longer alone.
She would be right to believe it—because the only force that could tear me from her now is death itself. And I don’t mean hers. If she were to slip away from this world, I would not stay in it for long. I would follow without hesitation, willingly surrendering to the emptiness just to find her on the other side. Because I realize that a life without her is no life at all, merely an existence—empty, hollow, and devoid of any meaning.
As she finishes dressing, I take one last drag of my cigarette, the ash glowing in the chamber before I turn and crush it out. When I face forward again, my gaze lands on the man who dared to manipulate my girl, who used a masked face to deceive Mira—to violate what is hers alone to give, and mine alone to worship.
“You should have turned your eyes elsewhere,” I murmur. “Away from the innocence of my little fox.”
I crouch beside him, grasping his lifeless face with cold precision. His vacant, unseeing globes stare up at me as I reach out, pulling down his lower eyelid. With the same ruthless efficiency with which he once hunted his prey, I press the burning ember of my cigarette against the delicate tissue of his retina. The hiss of searing flesh sizzling. Smoke curls. The acrid scent of scorched meat lingers in the air, an offering to the cruelty he inflicted.
Mira watches me, her expression unreadable—curious, disturbed, yet… exhilarated. I know that look. I see the way she is unfolding, shedding the last remnants of the girl she was, stepping fully into the woman she is becoming.
With one hand, I retrieve another cigarette, lighting it slowly, inhaling deeply until the heat sears through my lungs. With the other, I reach for Mira, guiding her into my lap, pulling her against me. I feel her settle, warm and pliant, as the world burns around us. I trace lazy patterns along her thigh as I let her take in the sight before us—the delicate consumption of flesh by flame. It is almost poetic, in its own grotesque way. The irony is not lost on me.
It feels like one of those quiet, intimate moments shared between lovers—like a couple curled up by a crackling campfire, passing a cigarette, lost in the dance of the flames. Except our fire is a man’s ruined face, and the only thing we are burning through is the last shred of his existence.
We sit in silence, the only sound the soft inhale and exhale of smoke leaving my lips. The air is thick with the scent of scorched flesh and nicotine, and somehow, this moment feels… peaceful.
“Isn’t it nice, little fox?” I say, amusement curling at the edge of my voice. “You and me, wrapped up together by the fire.”
She lets out a laugh, light and sharp, smacking my arm.
“You’re so stupid.”
“I know.” I grin, taking another drag. “Now, it’s your turn.”
I extend the cigarette toward her, positioning it into her trembling hand. She shudders the moment her fingers close around it—a tremor caught in the balance of fear and anticipation, but she still takes it.
“As far as I remember, he looked at you with both of his eyes, didn’t he?” I say in a smooth, mischievous way. “I command it for me… but in the end, I want it to be for you.”
She hesitates, staring down at the still body before her, the cinder flickering between her fingertips, a primal war raging in her mind. I see the moment her resolve falters, her breath hitching as she freezes just before making contact. She needs support. It is natural. It is expected. And I will always be there to give it to her—especially when her first kill will come.
I move to steady her hand, but before I can, she steels her nerves and takes the final step forward. All she needed was the smallest push, a whisper of assurance.
In that moment, with more force than I used—so much more, and hell, that makes my dick going berserk again—she drives the cigarette into the remaining eye. The flesh boiling on impact, the wet crackle of burning tissue filling the hotel room as the heat consumes what is left.
Then… she smiles. A small, wicked thing curling at the edges of her lips.
And God help me; she has never looked more beautiful.
Covered in blood, in sweat, in the remnants of her own transformation. She is carved from fire and vengeance, from ashes and untamed, unbreakable force.
She is, without a doubt, the woman of my fucking life.
Morning has barely broken, a faint light slipping through the curtains of my room, and already, my mood is as stormy as last night. Mira sleeps in her own room, where I took her after our little escapade. I stayed outside her door for a while, listening to her breathing, making sure she found at least a sliver of peace—one wrapped in ashes and dried blood.
Me, though? I did not sleep. Not really. The adrenaline faded, but the irritation never did. I reach for my phone and dial Lucian, stretching out on my bed as the call rings. When he picks up, I shut him down before he even starts.
“Morning, sunshine,” I purr, stretching lazily. “Tell me, how does it feel to be your own financial liability? Paying a man to clean up the corpse of another man you also paid? That’s got to sting.”
I let a beat of silence hang, just long enough to let the humiliation sink in.
“Personally?” I let out a low chuckle. “I think it is the funniest shit I have ever seen. Almost makes me want to let you keep going just to see what else you will waste your money on.”
I exhale slowly, letting the last traces of laughter fade, my tone shifting with it. Because as much as I enjoy getting under his skin, this is not why I called.
“Listen, Mira is going to rise in this world, whether is with or without you. She has the drive. And the smarts. What is coming next for her—it’s not even a choice. It is inevitable. And I will gladly be the one who shapes it.”
I hear the restraint in his breath, the tension behind his silence—but this? This part is out of his hands.
Because my little fox and I? We are fucking unstoppable. And now that she wants me by her side, no one will touch us.
“Mira’s completely blind to the truth about her father.” I continue. “She has no clue what she is capable of, though I saw it in her yesterday. And that kind of skill? Practically extinct”
I pause, my tone deepening as the meaning of the words settles in.
“You and I have been at each other’s throats for too long now. It is time we stop tearing ourselves down and start looking at what is right in front of us. We can have Mira on our side, and she’ll never need to know the truth about Edmond. I’ll make sure of that. She can’t ever find out I was there when it all happened.”
The thought alone sends a bullet through my chest.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Lucian? This is not just about the Order. It’s about her. Her past is irrelevant. She will become exactly what I mold her to be. We do this my way, or I’ll burn the Order into the fucking ground with you on top of it.”
Lucian stays silent; however I know he’s dissecting my words, breaking them down the way he always does. I push myself up, pacing slowly across the room, the phone still to my ear.
“Let’s stop wasting time,” I press on. “You and I both know where this is headed. Mira belongs in the Order. She always has. She has already proven that. So, will you take my offer, or shall we keep playing this game of cat and mouse—both of us fully aware that we are far too skilled to ever truly lose?”
I hear through the phone a small noise—a growl, a delightful mix of frustration and a sigh.
“I want her to have at least one kill under her belt before we officially bring her in,” finally says Lucian. “And don’t tell her about the Order’s intentions—just find her a target and evaluate her performances.”
A low chuckle escapes me, a knowing smirk forming. I already have a clear direction in mind.
“You’ll hear from me soon enough,” I retort, ending the call.
Now that this is settled, Mira can finally return home. But there is not a chance in hell I will let her out of my sight—not even for a second. She is far too precious to me and, from this moment on, to the Order as well.
I knock twice on her door. Not hard. Just to let her know I mean business, but not enough to wake the dead. Mira, however, groans like I have just triggered the apocalypse.
“Rise and shine, Ginger,” I lean against the wall. “You’ve got ten seconds before I break this door down and carry you out wrapped in your sheets like some kind of gothic breakfast burrito.”
Silence. I smirk. I know this game.
“Ten. Nine. Eight—”
The door swings open mid-countdown, and I am greeted by a very grumpy, sleep-drunk Mira, her hair a chaotic mess, one of my black shirts slipping off her shoulder.
“You,” she rasps, voice still asleep, “are the worst part of my morning.”
“Still,” I drawl, tilting my head, “you opened the door.”
“Because you count like a fucking psychopath.”
“I am a psychopath.” I grin under the mask. “Now, come on. You have earned a croissant. Or ten. I’m not one to comment.”
She sighs so hard you would think I just asked her to walk to Paris to get it. She flips me off and disappears back inside to get dressed.
Fifteen minutes later, we are tucked into a secluded corner of the hotel café. The scent of coffee lingers in the air like a warm fog, thick and rich. Mira stirs her oat milk latte absentmindedly, staring at it like it might betray her.
Across from her, I pull up my mask just enough to sip my black coffee—because anything else is blasphemy in my honest opinion—and watch her with an amused tilt of my head.
“You know,” I muse, “for someone who fought like a wild animal last night, you are very delicate with that spoon.”
Mira eyes me over her coffee cup, disbelief written all over her face.
“You are seriously judging me while sitting in a café, at 7 a.m., wearing a full-on horror movie mask? People are staring, Xan.”
I shrug, utterly unbothered. “Let them. Maybe they think I’m a celebrity.”
“Or a serial killer.”
I place a hand over my heart, feigning deep offense.
“Wow. Hurtful.”
She rolls her eyes, but I see it—the way she swallows back a laugh like it physically pains her. She will not give me the satisfaction. Not yet. But I will get it out of her. I always do.
She glares at me over the rim of her mug.
“God, just let me wake up.”
“So dramatic.” I take another slow sip. “Do you need me to feed you? Cut your croissant into tiny little pieces? Maybe airplane the fork into your mouth?”
“I need you to shut the hell up.”
“That’s never going to happen.”
She sighs once more, but I catch the twitch of her lips—she is fighting it. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet,” I lean forward, resting my elbow on the table, “here you are, having breakfast with me. Again.”
She does not answer right away, just breaks off a piece of her pastry and pops it into her mouth. I wait.
“Stockholm Syndrome,” she finally mutters.
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Not yet, little fox. But soon.”