Page 12 of The Scars of War (Of Ruin and Fire #1)

The Rot Beneath the Skin

I wake with the taste of rust in my mouth, skin humming like a bad frequency.

An uncomfortable vibration, sharp and almost piercing, like my body sending a warning.

The red satin sheets still wrapped around me tightly are the only thing bringing a sliver of comfort while my body and brain battle, leaving me to dread the fuckery today will bring.

I’m learning quickly that whatever this is, there’s no avoiding it.

Someone, somewhere, or hell, something, has a message for me, and I have a feeling it doesn’t end with Riven or freezer man.

Feet finally on the floor, the sketchbook screams to me, page open to the new symbol drawn, different from the symbol belonging to Riven. I may not understand a lot of what's going on lately, but just like the others this wasn’t drawn on purpose. At this point, nothing makes sense .

I lean forward, half hanging off the bed.

Rubbing my eyes when the panic sets. My hands were normal seconds ago and now they’re not.

Padding to the bathroom, I quickly flick the switch allowing light to enter the dark room.

The mirror begins to flicker. I notice for a moment the reflection is lagging, moving slower than me.

It’s the same version of me again. The version of me I’m terrified will be released if I stare too long, begging me to escape.

I hit the light switch so hard I wouldn't be surprised if it never came back on again. Then I notice my reflection syncing with me again. I lean in, whispering like it’ll matter. “Get your fucking shit together.” I know something is wrong. It feels like there is rot under my skin now.

The city is screaming at me. It’s loud, blinding, and full of people who feel like threats. With the need to escape this apartment and what I hope is just paranoia, I try to get a coffee before going to work. The barista doesn’t meet my eyes and I can feel it. Here we go again.

I brush past a guy in a suit and he stumbles back like I hit him. I wish I did. People are giving me a wide berth, like they can feel it too. My phone vibrates with push notifications.

MYSTERY ILLNESS SWEEPS INNER CITY. UNKNOWN PATHOGEN. CASES UP. SYMPTOMS UNEXPLAINED.

Elias . I’ve known his name since the moment he touched me.

His name burns in my brain like a scar, no matter how many times I try to scrub it out.

He didn’t infect me with something, he altered me.

Awakening a different part of me, like Riven has.

And now, it feels like it’s bleeding into everything.

By the time I reach the bar, I’m sweating, not from the heat, but from the itch behind my eyes.

The feeling that something’s off-center in the world, and I’m the fulcrum.

“Hey, Lux,” Rowan, one of the regulars, says as I walk in.

Hoping he doesn’t notice and ask questions I’m not in the mood to answer.

He orders his usual. Gin and tonic with two limes.

He’s staring at me with a puzzled look on his face.

He’s noticing something is off, great. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” I reply, trying to hide a sarcastic tone so this conversation ends.

“You were kinda out of it the other night.”

My stomach knots. “What night?”

He shrugs. “Two nights ago. You were weird. Like…not you.” I don’t answer. I step behind the bar, hands shaking, and grab my half apron. In the front pocket, the one reserved for straws and random shit, is a folded piece of paper. Just four words, written in clean block print:

The rot suits you.

My fingers curl around the note until the paper crumples and the edges press into my skin, threatening to cut me as I squeeze tighter. I don’t bleed, not right away, not like I should.

I leave the bar before my shift ends. I can’t explain, but I can’t stay.

The feeling of rot is still under my skin, and if I stay too long, I’ll start peeling it off just to feel clean.

The streets are packed. Horns. Neon. Voices sound like static.

Every sound feels like it’s aimed at me.

And the worst part? It doesn’t feel wrong anymore. It feels like coming home.

I take a turn too early and end up in a side alley.

Someone is there, standing on the other end of the street.

He is lean, has his hands in his pockets, with eyes hollow.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. He just watches me like he’s memorizing something important.

A bus rolls past me, and when it’s gone… so is he.

I stagger back into my apartment and slam the door.

No peephole. No lock strong enough. No drink stiff enough.

I toss the note in the sink and light a match.

I watch it curl, blacken, and disappear into ashes.

The words don’t disappear. I can still feel them.

Crawling up the back of my throat. The rot suits you.

I grab my phone and pull up the bar’s security from two nights ago, the night apparently everyone noticed that I wasn’t acting myself.

I fast-forward, and freeze. It looks like me, but slightly different.

I’m moving differently. Too smooth. Too confident.

Like someone else is driving. I watch myself smile at a customer.

I never smile like that. I watch myself pour drinks without shaking hands and with eerie precision.

That’s when I see it, the symbol, seemingly burned into the inside of my wrist. Plain as fucking day.

I don’t remember that. I pull my sleeve up, nothing there. In the footage, it’s there...I rewind .

There it is again. Always on my wrist. Always glowing faintly under the lights.

A symbol I’ve never seen before, but somehow already know.

I slam the laptop shut and sit in the dark, chest tight.

Something’s inside me now. It’s not a dream.

It can’t be a haunting, it’s a trigger, and someone out there is waiting to pull it.

The gates groan open like they’ve been waiting.

I don’t knock, I just walk in. I storm through the foyer, boots loud on the marble.

Past the relics of ruin or whatever the fuck he calls them.

Every corner is familiar. I find him in the study.

Fire lit. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled up those delicious looking forearms. He is reading a leather-bound book like he didn’t rearrange my entire fucking world two days ago. He looks up. Doesn’t flinch. “Lux.”

“Don’t say my name like it's yours to use.”

He closes the book slowly. “You’re here.”

“I burned the note.”

“Which one?”

“The rot suits you.”

His jaw tightens just enough to show it wasn’t from him. Great. I fucking love that for me. One more mystery to choke on. “Something’s inside me,” I snap. “Something I didn’t invite.”

“No. You just answered the door.”

I step closer, fury rolling off me in waves. “This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You knew Elias touched me. You didn’t stop it.”

“Would you have listened?” I hate that he is right.

“He changed something,” I say, voice low. “And I don’t know what. I’m seeing shit. Feeling things that aren’t mine. And now there’s this fucking symbol…”

“Show me.”

“It’s not there anymore.”

“Then draw it.”

“I don’t want to.”

“But you will.”

Fuck him…he is right. Again.

I grab the pen from his desk. Drag a torn sheet from a ledger and begin drawing. The symbol pours out of me like it’s etched in my veins. When I finish, I slide it across the desk. He doesn’t touch it. He just looks at it…and goes st ill. “What is it?” I ask.

“A scar,” he says. “Worn by something older than plague. Older than death.”

“Then how do I have it?”

His eyes lift. There’s no warmth in them. No softness. Only the weight of a truth too ancient to unlearn.

He leans forward, slow and deliberate, like proximity might damn me further.

“Because Elias touched you.”

The words hit like a blade to the gut—slow, cold, final.

My breath stutters. “I didn’t ask him to.”

Riven’s gaze sharpens, brutal and unflinching.

“But you didn’t stop him, either.”

My hand clenches. “You want me to beg for forgiveness?”

He stands. Crosses the room. Stops a breath away from me. “I don’t want your apology.” He takes my wrist. Gentle. Reverent. “I want your focus.”

“Why?”

“Because others will come.”

“You keep saying this like it’s fate.”

“No,” he murmurs, “I say it as a warning.”

“Then fucking protect me. ”

His eyes flare. Then he moves. Faster than the breath I was attempting to take. He kisses me like it’s a war he plans to win. One hand in my hair, the other pressing fire into my hip. The moment his mouth crashes against mine, I forget how to breathe.

This isn’t soft. This isn’t sweet. This is possession, laid bare.

His tongue parts my lips, demanding. His teeth catch my bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to say mine .

His hand fists my hair, guiding my mouth like a weapon.

And I let him. I want to. My fingers drag over the buttons of his shirt, ripping more than unfastening.

I want skin…heat…power. I want the pulse of him under my hands like proof that this isn’t some fever dream stitched together by madness.

He groans into my mouth when I slide my hands over his chest, smooth, solid, hot.

Like stone warmed by fire. He pushes me against the bookshelf.

The ledgers rattle. A scroll crashes to the floor.

His thigh slots between mine, lifting me just enough “You shouldn’t tempt me,” he growls against my throat.

“Too late.” I rake my nails down his back, and he snaps. His hands are under my shirt, yanking it over my head. His mouth follows, down my neck, over the curve of my shoulder, between my breasts. He sucks a bruise into my skin like he’s marking territory.

No pause. No hesitation. Every move says want. Every touch says need.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he whispers, lips dragging down my stomach. “The way this is supposed to be.”

“You think this is fate?” I breathe.

“No,” he growls. “This is fucking war.” He drops to his knees in front of me like a man built for worship…

and ruin. His fingers curl into my waistband, tugging pants and panties in one smooth motion, he doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t give me the time to be shy or coy.

Just stares. At me. Flushed, breathless, already shaking.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is on me.

His tongue is hot, slow, and deliberate.

He licks like he’s learning me, committing every gasp to memory.

His hands grip my thighs, thumbs teasing along the edges of my heat, mouth dragging slick and ruthless between my legs.

I moan, loud and raw, fingers sinking into his hair, hips rolling against his face.

He groans like I’m the meal he’s been st arving for.

“Riven…”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he growls, mouth still working me. “Not unless you want me to come right here, tasting you,”

FUCK.

He stands in a fluid motion, lifting me into his arms like I weigh nothing.

Carries me to the leather chaise near the fire and lays me out like something priceless.

Like something already his. He strips the rest of his clothes off.

Slow, powerful, cock already hard, leaking, and goddamn gorgeous.

When he presses the tip against my entrance, he pauses, just enough for his eyes to lock on mine. “Last chance.”

“You already own me,” I whisper. He sinks into me with a groan that shudders through both of us.

Thick. Deep. Perfect. I cry out from the feeling of him as he fills every inch, like I was shaped for him.

He starts to move in long, punishing strokes, each one pushing me closer to the edge.

I claw at his back, mouth open, no words left.

Every thrust feels like he’s claiming me, ensuring no one after him will ever compare.silk Like he knows no one will ever come close.

“Say it,” he pants against my neck. “Say you’re mine. ”

“I’m yours.”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

His thrusts get harder. Faster. And when I come, it’s a detonation. Legs shaking. Back arched. Vision white-hot and blinding. He follows with a snarl and a growl of my name, spilling deep inside me, hips jerking, teeth clenched. We collapse together, panting.

Skin on skin. Heart on fire.

War won.