Page 18 of His to Ruin

I lift my head as reality bleeds back in. I’d been lounging, half-dozing in the back of the library, surrounded by the scent of old paper and dust, the past bleeding into the present. When your life stretches for damn near eternity, sometimes timelines get tangled.

Christian’s heartbeat. Voices. My eyes fly open and I see it. Christian.

My Christian, backed against a wall.

Kaleb, bleeding into the pavement.

And one soon-to-be dead bastard standing over them.

The shadows coil beneath my skin, thick and seething, crawling through my veins like a second pulse. Hunger hums in my bones, curling through my fingers and sharpening my teeth. The bookstore lights flicker, the buzzing of electricity stuttering as I rise to my full height. My limbs stretch, tension rolling through them like a predator shaking off sleep. I’m outside before my mind can even register that my body is moving.

The first hit is pure, unfiltered rage. A vicious, unholy thing that tears through me like wildfire. My fist slams into his ribs. Something cracks. He wheezes as his mouth flounders open like a fish gasping for air. But I don’t let him fall. I grab him by the collar, twisting, snapping.

A sickening pop. A final, ragged breath. No, not yet. His head lolls, but I hold him upright and tighten my grip. Not done. Not nearly done. He chokes on something wet, his free hand fumbling for the knife at his side.

Stupid.

Slow.

Human.

How fucking weak.

I let him brandish it. Let him think, for one brief, useless second, that it will help. The blade flashes between us, but I catch his wrist mid-air, my grip crushing his. Bones shatter like dry twigs. The sound is sharp, violent, and delicious. He screams, a broken, mangled thing, but I don’t give him time to wallow in it. I twist, tearing muscle from bone, splintering his arm at an angle it was never meant to bend.

He collapses, wailing.

Pathetic.

I crouch, watching the agony sink its claws into him. He’s trying to crawl, breathing raggedly as he cradles his arm. His movements are sluggish. His pupils are blown wide, the fear cracking through every inch of him.

I drop my shadows. He sees me now. He sees true evil, not the bullshit bigotry he claims is evil, but the true darkness from the pits of Hell.

I let him watch as dark smoke bleeds from my skin, stretching, twisting, unraveling into something monstrous. The street lights dim and flicker, choking beneath the weight of me. My form wavers, jagged and taller, shifting between what he thinks he knows and what lurks underneath.

His breath stutters. His broken arm curls inward, useless. “W-what the fuck?”

I laugh. Low. Sharp. Something inhuman.

“Oh, you fucked up.”

Then I move.

I don’t fight fair. Not when my human’s safety is involved.

My hand slams through his chest. Not piercing skin, no. I don’t need to. The shadows do it for me, burrowing beneath the surface, coiling through his ribs, and wrapping around his lungs in a vice grip.

I lean in, close enough to watch the horror unfurl behind his eyes.

“Did you think that you could touch what’s mine and walk away?”

Christian is watching. I feel his gaze like a brand against my skin, burning and unwavering. But it’s not fear. It’s not shock. He picks up the switchblade lying discarded beside us and my grip loosens as he moves closer. The steel gleams under the dim, flickering light, and for a moment, I just watch. Because this isn’t mine to finish. This is his.

My shadows slither across the pavement, drinkingin the fear rolling off this pathetic bastard in waves. They coil around Christian’s ankles, testing, tasting, hungry to see what he’ll do next. He finally crouches down beside me and the pathetic excuse of a man.

Christian stops just inches from his attacker with the knife in his grip. Slowly, he lifts the weapon, dragging the flat side of the blade along the bastard’s cheek. A slow, taunting scrape. Just enough to tease and make his breath hitch. My cock hardens as I watch him take his power.

The bastard’s breath comes in frantic bursts. His eyes dart between Christian and me, wide, wild—searching for something that isn’t there. Mercy. He doesn’t know who to be more afraid of.