Page 57 of Haunted Crowns
The door creaked open and unhurried footsteps followed. Eris did not turn. She waited. Only when the air shifted, charged and oppressive, did she lift her gaze.
Rurik Rimashenko.
He stepped into the light as if it owed him. He was massive, built for spectacle, not survival—a man who destroyed for the pleasure of watching things break. Where Avaristo’s power was tempered by precision, Rurik’s was rooted in chaos, raw and unchecked. His coat hung open, a silk shirt clinging to sculpted muscle, unscarred and unearned. He stood not like a man, but like a promise: relaxed, entitled, and certain of his dominance.
When his eyes met hers, the room seemed to shift. They were gray, cold, and hungry. His gaze moved over her, invasively, as if he had already decided she belonged to him. It was not curiosity or admiration. It was assessment, the look of someone inventorying what he intended to claim.
Stubble traced his jaw with careful precision, and a single curl fell across his brow like a whispered lie. Manhood sculpted for desire, not substance—for velvet lounges, not battlefields. Still, he radiated danger, because men like Rurik didn’t need knives. They simply took what they wanted.
Her skin crawled as a sneer curled her lips in raw, unfiltered disgust.
He noticed. He liked it.
Rurik rubbed his jaw with a smirk, visibly amused.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. "The pleasure is all mine, Princess." He stepped closer, head tilting. “So the rumors were true,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “You truly are breathtaking.”
Eris didn’t flinch. Her voice, when it came, was cool and precise, like a blade unsheathing. “Pity. I can't say the same.” She let her gaze sweep over him, slicing the air between them like a verdict. “I have standards, after all.”
His smirk darkened, sharpening into something more primal. He wasn’t used to refusal, and women like her didn’t deter him—they provoked him.
Behind her, Avaristo chuckled, indulgent and amused. “Oh, you wound him, my dear.” His voice was that of a man enjoying the precision of a well-laid trap. “That’s rather rude,” he added smoothly, “considering my nephew has been quite insistent on meeting you.”
Eris’s stomach twisted, but she did not let it show.
Avaristo’s eyes glittered as Rurik’s smirk deepened beside him, dark and hungry. He sighed, adjusted his cuffs, and set the glass down with practiced calm.
“Well then,” he murmured, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “You two have fun.”
He turned away, his stride effortless, already dismissing her. The door clicked shut behind him.
The shift in the air was immediate and claustrophobic. A weight settled on her chest, tightening like fingers around her throat.
Then came a heavy, deliberate step. Rurik advanced with slow certainty, his presence stretching to fill the room like a dark tide. Eris forced herself to stay still, to breathe evenly, but her fingers curled around the chair’s arms, betraying her fear.
He leaned in, his voice deeply amused. “Drop the mask, Eris.” His breath brushed her ear. “That little aristocratic sneer of yours—it’s charming. But we both know what’s underneath.” His voice dropped crueler. “Just a girl aching to be broken properly, by someone who knows how to make her beg for it.”
The words slithered in, wet with mockery and laced with rot. Revulsion tore through her as rage surged.
Her hand flew fast, but he moved faster. His fingers clamped around her wrist, iron-tight. Eris gasped as his grip locked in. His smirk deepened. He was clearly enjoying this. His other hand seized her arm and flung her from the chair.
She hit the ground hard. Pain shot through her elbows, ribs, spine. She inhaled sharply and pressed trembling palms to the cold floor, trying to rise.
Let him think this will break me. Let him. A broken thing cuts deeper.
Unhurried bootsteps followed. She turned her head slightly as a shadow stretched toward her. Rurik stood above her, calm and watching. His fingers moved to his belt. She heard leather drag slow through metal. Her pulse roared. Her body seized. He knelt and slipped the belt around her throat, not tight enough to cut air, just tight enough to trap her in the threat.
His whisper coiled into her ear. “Tell me, Eris…did Kareon leave his mark or should I?”
Her breath caught. Fury rose. She turned and spoke through clenched teeth. “Go to hell, Rurik.”
The words cut like a blade. Something flickered in his eyes as he realized that maybe she would never break the way he wanted.
His grip tightened. Pain lanced through her jaw, but she didn’t flinch.
He smiled cruelly. “If he didn’t finish the lesson, I will.” He dropped the belt, but the threat stayed. He yanked her up and slammed her into the wall. The impact stole her breath. Grey eyes devoured her, cold and claiming. His gaze crawled over her like rot. “Ah…now I see it. No wonder Stephan’s gone mad for you.” He leaned in, eyes glinting. “You wear temptation like a fucking birthright.”
The words hit like acid.
