Page 15 of His to Ruin

I tilt my head and flash him a sadistic smile as I drag my clawed finger down the glass, slow, so slow, watching the way his body locks up in terror.

“Drive, Sammy.” My voice slithers through the now-cracked windshield, low and syrupy. “And don’t come back.”

His tires screech as he peels out of the lot, nearly hitting a parked car in his blind panic. I laugh, satisfied, watching his pathetic little vehicle disappear down the street.

“Good boy.”

I should be riding the high of making Sam scream like a dying animal. I should be satisfied watching his shitty little car fishtail down the street, his panic thick in the air like the coppery taste of blood. But as soon as I turn back to locate Christian, the satisfaction curdles into rage.

Because he’s not alone.

That fucker from before, the young one who thought he could put his hands on Christian last time, is standing inside the bookstore, leering, cocky as ever.

And I can’t do a fucking thing about it.

The old laws bind me. Noctis Imperium: The Dominion of Night. A law older than human history, older than fire and scripture. We were made from darkness, stitched from the fabric of void and hunger, and so long as the night reigned, so did we. But daylight … daylight was the first weapon wielded against us, a holy, untouchable force that forced us into the cracks, the shadows, the liminal spaces where humans forgot to look.

I can still exist in daylight, barely. But it costs me. Every second is a fight against the natural order, a struggle to keep from unraveling into nothing. Every action drains me, pullingme further into the abyss of inertia. If I push too hard, I’ll be trapped, fading into mere thought, a whisper on the edge of Christian’s mind, unable to reach him, unable to hold him.

And I would rather burn than let that happen.

Inside, the bookstore is quiet except for the low hum of the old AC unit and the lazy flipping of pages from some students skimming through books they have no intention of buying. Christian stands near the counter, trying to ignore the presence of the asshole now leaning against it, drumming his fingers on the wood.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He wants attention. Wants a reaction.

My fingers twitch, the need to intervene clawing at me, but light still bleeds through the store windows, slanting golden across the floor, severing me from them. I clench my jaw and push, willing myself to reach beyond the barrier of my limitations. A test. A risk.

If I can’t touch flesh, maybe I can touch something else.

My gaze flicks to the old glass paperweight sitting on the counter near Christian’s hand. If I can move it, if I can make it shift even an inch, then maybe…

The strain hits me like a knife between the ribs. My vision darkens at the edges, the weight of daylight pressing down, suffocating. The paperweight trembles, just barely, but instead of sliding toward the edge, it resists, like something unseen is forcing it to stay put.

Fuck.

I grind my teeth, forcing more of myself into it, but it’s like pushing through molasses. The object jerks, just a fraction, before snapping back into place.

The resistance sears through me, a rejection so visceral it feels like my own body is spitting me out. A surge of rage floodsmy chest. I want to shatter the glass, splinter it into a thousand jagged pieces just to prove I can. But the light has me in its teeth, holding me still, laughing at my struggle.

I pull back before it costs me more than I can afford. The edges of my form flicker, my shadows retract into the corners like a wounded animal licking its wounds. The frustration is a living thing inside me. I hate this. I hate the rules. I hate that I can’t reach Christian when he needs me the most.

And he does need me.

The bully’s smirk deepens as he watches Christian stiffen, his fingers flexing over the book he was shelving. The asshole’s eyes drag over him, slow and assessing, like he’s weighing his options. His voice is slick with condescension when he finally speaks.

“Not so tough without your freak boyfriend around to protect you, are you?”

Boyfriend.

Something ugly and hot coils in my chest, momentarily eclipsing my rage at the sun. He called me Christian’s boyfriend.

It’s wrong—not enough, not nearly fucking enough, but I’ll take it. It's an acknowledgment. Proof that people see it, see that Christian is mine.

Christian scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The bully grins, sensing an opening. “Guess he’s not here now, huh?” He leans in closer. “Figures. People talk big when they’ve got protection. But when it’s just you and me…” His fingers twitch like he’s thinking about touching Christian.