Ruin (The Rhodes 1)

“Xan!” I call, and he comes out after a few beats. “Close the front gates. Don’t let neither Celeste nor Hampton get away. Don’t question them until I come. No mistakes are allowed, do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I storm through the hall, keeping my strides as composed as I can possibly manage.

Tristan walks to me with furrowed brows. “Where do you think you’re going? The banquet isn’t over.”

I give him my back-the-fuck-off glare. “Not now. I mean it.”

Once I reach the outside terrace, I run to my quarters and dial Kane. The more the phone rings, the louder the unusual sounds echo in my chest.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Who did you leave in front of my quarters?”

“Craig, Sir.”

“Only Craig?” I shout.

“It’s a busy night, Sir.”

Fuck.

“Meet me at my quarters now.”

I throw the phone, uncaring if it reaches my pocket or not.

Bloody hell. I made a terrible mistake. I underestimated Hampton.

The quick sound of my steps through the hall of my quarters sends a sinking unfamiliar sensation down my stomach. It twists my insides into atypical knots.

It’s open. The door to my quarters— protected by a password— is open. Craig is nowhere in sight.

My pulse overwhelms my ears as I take quiet steps upstairs. My hands reach for the knife in my jacket. Once my fingers lurch around the cool handle, my breathing evens out, a much-needed calmness washes over me.

My feet move of their own accord to the last room in the corridor. I halt right beside the door frame.

‘She’s already gone—’

I shut the voices out, an ability I rarely make use of, and focus on the solid handle in my palm. My breathing comes out in a regular rhythm.

Inhale. Exhale.

With careful hands, I crack the door open. Mae is splayed on the carpet, chest facing the ground, eyes closed. Her once beautiful features are bloodied beyond distinction. Lines of crimson trickle down her neck, pasting strands of her hair to her stained flesh. Her nightgown is torn from behind, the white material of her undergarment on display.

The sinking at the bottom of my stomach heightens. It’s only when Mae’s chest rises and falls in a constant rhythm am I allowed to breathe.

“Wake up, whore!” Hampton pulls Mae by the hair. His dirty hands dare to touch her beautiful strands. The bastard— who is soon to be dead— had the audacity not only to touch her, but to also beat her. Bleed her. Call her a whore. Under my fucking roof.

Adrenaline kicks in with a slamming force. My pulse quickens. A tornado washes the sinking sensation away and replaces it with something I can recognise: pure bloody rage.

I place the knife between my thumb and forefinger and lift my hand to throw it when Mae’s lids flutter open. I pause at their wide dullness. The anguish and fear in them so strong that the sinking in my stomach comes back with vengeance.

Fucking hell.

When she meets my gaze, an illumination strikes their blueness. She opens her mouth but I hold a forefinger to mine and shake my head. Mae clasps her lips shut, tears mix with the blood, staining her face.

Hampton places a knee between her legs as he fumbles with his belt. Trembling takes over her entire body. Mae’s gaze searches mine, a silent plea for help leaves her eyes in the form of unstoppable tears.