Page 68

Where’s Ruin?

Is he just being silent? Stalking in the dark like a ghost, savoring the hunt?

Or is it only Rule out here?

The thought unsettles me in ways I don’t want to admit.

Another burst of motion—a snap of foliage. I pivot hard, and something smacks into my chest—a harmless but weighted sandbag dangling from a tree. It knocks me back just enough to cost me precious momentum, but it doesn’t stop me.

Another trap.

Another fucking reminder that I'm being toyed with.

“Almost had you there.”

My stomach twists. Not in fear.

In fury.

Then another cramp hits—not as bad but I still stumble, falling to one knee. I breathe through it, teeth clenched.

“Fuck,” I hiss, dragging myself upright again.

Once this is over, I'm going to hunt Reyes down and cut him into pieces simply for existing. For being the excuse behind this whole psychotic shitshow.

This isn’t protection.

This ispossession.

And if I get the chance, I’m going stabby on these bastards first.

Well... maybe I’ll leave Ruin’s magic cock intact. For a little while.

I move again, slower now. Strategic. My eyes scan everything—shadows, soil, subtle shifts in the ground that scream of artificial tampering. I spot one just in time. A snare, half-buried beneath leaves.

I sidestep it and keep going, ducking under a net rigged between two trees. Silent alarms, I bet. Traps designed to let them know where I am. Or maybe just to fuck with me.

Branches snap behind me—closer now. The tension is electric, the air charged. I twist and bolt downhill, slipping through a narrow rocky pass that forces me sideways. A rope snaps around my ankle mid-stride, yanking me upward with brutal force. I slam into the air, wind knocked clean from my lungs.

I hang there, upside down, blood rushing to my head, vision blurring.

“Really?” I mutter to myself, fury boiling. “A fucking snare trap?!”

Footsteps approach slowly. Steady. Calculated.

Rule.

Not rushing. Not panicked.

Because he knows.

He’s already won.

And I am going to make him bleed for it.

He steps into view like he owns the forest. Black tactical gear. Mask. Glasses. That whole untouchable, unreadable, arrogant silhouette.

“You’re fucking good,” he says, voice steady. “But not good enough.”