All Chapters of His Forbidden Muse: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

“What now?” I croak. He shrugs indifferently. “About what?”My jaw clench. “About the murder.”“I don’t care.”I scoff in disbelief. “You should.”“That’s the thing, Krystina. I don’t fucking care that he’s dead.”Something inside me ruptures. It is so easy for him. Though I’m not justifying that guy’s words, I’m shocked that how a person can be so indifferent. Like he doesn’t have an emotional switch. As if turning his emotions on and off is as easy as killing a human. I’m not criticising his apathetic self either, but if you’re a human, you’re required to show human-like characteristics.A pulse. A flicker of remorse. A frown that says, I wish it hadn’t come to this.But he has none of it.And that terrifies me more than the murder itself.I was taught to believe humanity had a default setting, empathy. That under all the conditioning and detachment, there’s a core. Something that feels. Something that aches. But now I’m starting to think that’s a lie we tell ourselves to

She’s so small in my arms.Too small to hold this much power over me.And yet, after everything, here I am, wrapped around her.Not the other way around.Never the other way around.Her breath fans softly against my chest, warm and strangely slow, like a lullaby I wasn’t meant to hear. Her cheek is pressed to my skin, lips parted slightly, and those delicate fucking arms are clinging to my torso as if I’m something that can keep her safe.I’m not.God knows, I’m not.But I like that she thinks I am. That somewhere in the shattered, trembling remnants of last night, her body has decided I’m her comfort.It’s laughable.It’s disgusting.It’s fucking intoxicating.I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers slowly and reverently, obsessed with the softness. Like fresh cream. Like it was made to be bruised. Marked and fucking claimed.She doesn’t even stir when I touch her. Maybe she knows better now. Maybe she’s learning.Or maybe she’s just exhausted from the chaos I keep feeding her

I shouldn’t be this furious over clothes. But standing in front of that mirror, wearing them, I feel like I’m bleeding.The skirt’s black tweed, daringly short, edges flaring as if I am teasing someone but barely. It hugs my thighs and the top has adjustable straps, polished metal rings, and that LV logo brooch.It’s sophisticated in a way, yet bold in other way.But that’s not what bothers me. I’ve never been materialistic about clothes. I do like wearing skirts and tops like these though I choose not to because of name-calling and slut-shaming I’ve been victim to.But it’s the undergarments I’m wearing under.Black lace. Soft as betraying myself. It’s too delicate. And risky. I don’t know why or how they fit me perfectly, like too perfectly.He made sure every thread screaming mine.How did he know my size? The bra cups cradle me in a way that corrupts my bones and the lacy, stringy underwear clings. I want to rip them off. Or… sob.I makeup-fix the straps, smooth the skirt and dab

“Where are you going?”His rough voice roar beneath my skin.I swallow and hesitate. “I need air.”He arches a brow. “There’s plenty inside.”“I couldn’t sleep.”He hums dryly. “Neither could I, apparently. This house is full of insomniacs and liras.”I blink. My throat tightens. Anya stirs and groans against him, her hand brushing his collarbone.Kyle however, ignores her touch, but I can see the twitch in his jaw that it affects him. Is there something going on I’m not aware of?“Go back to your room.” He says stepping forward, blocking the door with his huge frame.I say nothing.His jaw tics, but he doesn’t speak.“I’m just going for some fresh…”“Now.”His command is velvet-wrapped steel. No louder than a whisper, but it hits like a scream. And just like that, it gets on my nerves.My eyes narrow, and I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t need permission to leave my house.” I say, chin titling up despite the tremble in my fingers.“No. But you clearly need protection.”His gaze bur

I’ve never felt more alive than in the precise moment I surrendered to ruin.And maybe that’s the cruelty of it all. That aliveness, real and feral and breathing, comes not from just attraction or grace or safety but from the mouth of a wolf. A man. A sin. A moment that will eat me alive in retrospect, but tonight, tonight I wear it like a crown of thorns and I bleed with pride.We crossed another line. One etched not in ink but in salt and skin and breathless cries swallowed by the indifferent wind. Another line. As if there were any lines left. My body is wrecked. My soul is aflame. My thighs are still trembling where his mouth worshipped me. He made me feel divine, something holy and yet wholly his.And now, there is only stillness.One that follows violence or prayers.It lingers after climax, after confession, after a truth too large to say out loud. Too vast to consume.His hand is still clamped on my thigh. Heavy and warm and claiming. His thumb strokes absentmindedly, almost g