Page 14

Aurelia

It’s early morning, and I’m training in the Cirque with Blush. She’s trying to teach me how to handle fire, but it’s damn near impossible when every instinct screams to run from it.

Heat was one of Zye’s favorite things—especially when he was using it on me. Burning and marking me. He said he liked how my skin melted and how my scream would sound. But I keep telling myself to push past it and that we’re done letting fear call the shots, no matter what kind of trauma it crawled out of.

Wrath’s wild ways last night made me realize something more than anything. Despite the terror he poured into my body, somehow, this morning, I woke up feeling… lighter. Not physically, but mentally. So fucking light I found myself second-guessing everything I am, wondering if I had some kind of strange kink because I wanted to be bound and broken at his will all over again.

I let it happen, and Iwantedit to happen. And the fact that Wrath, someone so unhinged and so far gone, bent his entire fucking mentality just to let me live and keep meas his… did something to me and I know that’s crazy.

I should have felt disgusted, furious, afraid and the guilt that would follow. And I didn’t. But that’s because I’ve been through worse. I’ve survived so much worse. Worse in a way where I didn’t feel any control and I fucking died at the hands of three ruthless men. But that’s the fucked-up part—last night didn’t feel like that night. Or any other time in my life. I didn’t feel like I was being abused and discarded.

When Wrath spat in my mouth, again and again, I should’ve screamed. I should’ve thrashed. I should’ve been filled with the kind of rage that used to keep me alive. Instead, I choked on it, heaved on it, letting the taste, thick and bitter, run down my throat like something deadly, but couldn’t get enough of.

Because some sick, broken part of me wanted to be violated by him.

He’s not gentle and he clearly doesn’t ask, but he also doesn’t pretend to love me or lie with soft words while hurting me like the others did.

No, Wrath is violence without apology. He takes and he takes, and somehow it feels more honest than anything I’ve ever known. There’s no illusion. No betrayal hiding behind a mask. What you see is what you fucking get.

It’s pain. It’s dominance. It’s wrong. But it’s real.

And while I was consumed by the depths of it, when my mouth was full of filth and my body was trembling, something inside me cracked—and not in the way I’m used to. It wasn’t another fracture. It was a shift. A return. Like a jagged piece of me had finally snapped back into place, crooked but solid.

I hate him for it. God, I fucking hate him for it. But I crave him even more.

He destroyed a part of me—but the right part of me. Teased the hell out my body and left me dangling on the edge by a thread, just enough to make me come crawling back.

He knew exactly what the fuck he was doing. Every movement and moment of control or cruelty was a calculated psychosis.

I passed out last night, but as soon as I woke up this morning, I tried to read what he wrote all over my body, the ink trailing like a madman’s map. But the words were jumbled, smudged and warped, almost disjointed. Like his thoughts poured straight from his brain through the pen without ever stopping to make sense and it was just raw impulse.

But one thing stood out. One thing that hit harder than the rest.

He didn’t write over my scars.

Every mark I’ve got, every wound that healed ugly—he dodged them. And I don’t know how to feel about it. Was it respect? Or was it disgust? Was he repulsed? Is that why he wouldn’t kiss me or take it further? Is that why, after everything, he finally let me go?

I try to shake the intrusive thoughts again as I sit on the dusty floor, telling myself that I need to get out of my own head and it’s not that important, but it suddenly is. It’s all I can think about.

I reach down to untie the black ballet shoes that I’ve worn all morning, trying to mold my feet to their shape and get used to the pain, the pressure and the balance. I wince as I unravel them, the pain evident of what the barbed wire did to my flesh last night.

Blush said it’ll take time, and it won’t be easy. But I want to learn. Not just for myself, but for this place and stupidly... for Madame. Even if she never says it, I want to be something she’s proud of. Or at least something she can use, for now.

“Hey, Blush,” I call out and she instantly turns to look down at me. “Do you drive?”

She shakes her head once, and I sigh in defeat, glancing away.

“Why? You need to be somewhere?” she asks, her curiosity kicking in.

“I just wanted to collect my stuff from a place in the city.”

She nods slowly, eyeing me with that knowing look before a sly smile spreads across her face.

“Well, maybe you can ask Wrath.”

The thoughthadcrossed my mind this morning when I realized I still needed a ride to get to my lockup. But the longer I sat with it, the clearer it became that Wrath is a last resort. I can’t have him digging into my past. I don’t need or want that. I don’t needhimplaying the dark knight in shining armour.

I’m my own fucking knight. And I plan to handle this on my own.

Sure, it would be easier to let him deal with it—I know he could turn them all inside out without breaking a sweat. But where’s the satisfaction in that? I wantrevenge. Cold-blooded, drawn-out and personal.

The kind that doesn’t just end something... itetchessomething new into you and stains your fucking skin proudly for a life time. I want it brutal, loud and unforgiving. Something so raw it shakes this rage right out of me. Only then will it feel real. Only then will it feelmine.

But I know I need to tread carefully, especially with Zye. I don’t underestimate him. He’s always on edge, always alert. But I also know he’s got enemies lurking around every corner. If he thinks I’m still dead, which is likely, since he would’ve gone to hell and back to drag me back by his side, then I’ll pick them off, one by one. Let their minds dismantle, leave them drowning in confusion and panic.

I pull on my boots, tightening the laces like I’m bracing for something, because I am. No more stalling. After a brief nod to Blush, I make my way to Madame’s chamber, hoping to see her.

As soon as I slip past the curtain, I step inside, but the room is empty. She’s not here. I let out a sigh, already turning to leave when something stops me. That same pendant from before, sitting on the cabinet, glowing red beneath the flicker of candlelight like it’s breathing.

I move toward it, draw in its pull like a moth to an open flame. When I’m standing over it, I reach out, fingers hovering. The air warps and my vision edges into a blur. Then the whispers start. Soft, female and incomprehensible. But they’re getting louder and closer. Like something’s waking up.

“Can I help you, Aurelia?” Madame’s voice comes from my right, smooth and sudden, and I flinch, my head snapping toward her like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn't.

“Oh, I…” The words fall apart on my tongue as my eyes drift back to the pendant.

Madame glides around her desk, all quiet power and silk, and I watch her from the corner of my eye until she stops beside me. She lifts the pendant with gentle fingers, and my gaze follows it like it’s holding my breath hostage.

“You’re drawn to this?” she asks.

“I guess it’s just… pretty.”

“It belonged to a young woman who worked here once,” Madame says, her voice distant now, almost nostalgic.

I lift my head, drawn to the shift in her tone.

“She founded Oddity. A long time ago.”

My brows arch, caught off guard and I turn to fully face her.

“This place wasn’t always yours?”

She shakes her head slowly, her gaze dropping to the pendant in her hand.

“When Ophelia died, it was passed on to me.” Then her eyes meet mine, steady and dark. “They said she was a witch. That she practiced dark magic.”

A shiver traces my spine as she turns away, gliding back behind her desk, the pendant still hanging delicately from her fingers.

“Dark magic?” I ask. “But… aren’t you some kind of witch?”

She pauses, head tilted down for a beat before lowering the pendant onto the desk.

“I’m not a witch,” she says simply before her eyes flick up to mine and she picks up her smokes. “I lean more toward fortune telling and psychic readings.”

“Have you ever tried it?” I press. “Witchcraft?”

Her gaze sharpens, narrowing slightly as she places the cig between her lips. She lights it with a slow drag, the flame briefly illuminating her expression—curious, maybe a little wary.

“Witchcraft isn’t something you fuck with, Aurelia,” she says, voice low and calm. “Even I know there are boundaries you don’t cross. Some things aren’t meant to be touched. And when you do…” She exhales a slow stream of smoke. “…it always ends with… consequences.”

I give a small nod, the discomfort settling deep inside me.

“So…” she starts, eyes narrowing as she studies me. “Why are you really here?”

“Well… I know it’s sudden, but…” My lips press into a tight line. “I need my salary.”

One brow lifts, unimpressed. “You’ve haven’t been here long enough. Salaries are paid at the end of the month. We can provide food... Clothing...”

“No, it’s not that,” I say quietly, gaze dropping. “I just need cash.”

Her silence stretches, thick and unreadable.

“Never mind. Thanks anyway,” I mutter, already stepping back.

I turn and walk out, her scrutinizing gaze glued to my back, burning through me until I vanish behind the curtain.

As I exit the circus, I spot Wrath leaning against his bike outside the Hollows trailer with Soul standing beside him.

Shit. He’s really my last resort.

I hesitate, just for a second, watchinghim, before I shove the doubt aside and keep walking forward.

As I get closer, I catch Wrath side-eyeing me as if sensing my presence.

I stop a short distance away, clearing my throat, glancing off like I’m not really sure if I should be doing this, if I might regret it, but then I see Wrath give Soul a subtle movement with his fingers, a sign, and without a word, Soul walks into the trailer, leaving us alone.

When I look back, Wrath is already staring at me, those eerie eyes locked onto mine, pulling at the memory of last night. What he did… what we did, and it reminds me that he owes me. He owes me this one fucking thing, at the very least. I don’t have anyone else to ask now.

I fiddle with the hem of my shirt, before straightening my shoulders.

“I need a ride…” As soon as the words leave my lips, his brow raises, and I roll my eyes before gesturing to his bike with my hand.

“I need you to take me somewhere to collect something. It won’t take long… It’s…”

He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t react, and his silence, the judgement starts to edge it’s way under my skin. I throw my hands up, knowing this was a bad idea.

“You know what? Forget it.” I spin on my heel and walk forward, but his loud whistle stops me in my tracks.

My eyes close, and after a second, I inhale deeply, spinning around. His fingers crook calmly against his thigh, beaconing me to come to him.

I exhale before taking slow steps forward, but as soon as I’m within reach he grabs my hand, yanking me into him. I trip, the front of my body slamming into him, our faces so close my lips ghost over his.

When I feel his other hand slide down to my ass, giving it a possessive squeeze like we’re suddenly a thing, my throat goes dry. I swallow hard, glancing over my shoulder to see if anyone’s watching—heart hammering and nerves fraying.

As soon as I notice it’s just us alone, I straighten, but he still has a hold of my hand and with his other he begins to write on my palm.

What do I get in return, Allure? You’ve never begged me vocally before.

My eyes roll again without even realizing before I lift a brow.

“This isn’t me begging you, Wrath. I’ll just find another way. I would never beg you.”

Again, his eyes drop as he turns my hand, responding on the other side.

Your throat and body said otherwise last night. It was begging me to stop. Begging me to continue. What a confused little corpse you are.

The words burn hotter than the ink and I can feel the small smile on my lips, but when his red eyes flash up to mine to see my reaction, my face falls again.

“Do you always have to have something in return? Do you always have to be so forceful, scary and fucking dominant all the time?” I say, my words softer than intended.

He waits, taking in what I said, his gaze soaking in my face before he looks down again, forcing my sleeve up my arm so he can write across my skin.

Yeah, I do. Because when you fight me, it makes me want to kill you more. Which gets me hard. Vicious fucking circle.

So I’ll keep taking ‘til you learn what you already are.

Now tell me, Aurelia. What the fuck do I get in return?

I frown before standing a little taller, chin raised in defiance.

“My tits and pussy pressed against your back for the next hour or so?”

I watch his jaw tighten, his teeth biting like he’s about to snap, fed up with my sarcasm. I exhale a frustrated breath, realizing I’ve probably said way more than I should.

“What… What do you want?” I ask, cringing inwardly at the words I’m about to regret.

His eyes trail down the front of me, like he’s already tearing off my clothes with his stare.He lets go of my hand, rises, and suddenly he’s towering over me.

My neck cranes back, chest tight, and then he’s there, lowering his face to the side of my neck, his hands sliding around my waist, shaky but certain like they’ve always belonged there.

His tongue, warm and pierced, drags a line up the side of my throat, slow enough to make me shiver, flicking over the sharp curve of my jaw like a blade testing where to cut.

I gasp, my eyes closing as that awful need blooms inside me, heat rolling through me in waves I can’t control, my pussy clenching so hard it almost makes my knees tremble.

And then it hits—fluttering and frantic. I think for a second it’s butterflies, but no, it can’t be, not with him. It’s something far worse, something darker, Satan’s bats tearing through me like a warning siren dressed as some kind of twisted lust.

His hands clamp down on my waist, so sudden and rough my lungs collapse around the shock of it, eyes flying open just as he hauls me clean off the ground like I weigh nothing.

There’s no softness—just the force of him dropping me down onto his bike, like he can just easily throw me around.

Of course he doesn’t answer me. Wrath never says what he’ll do next. He justdoes because that’s what gets him off. He likes to keep my nerves on edge.

With no helmet, he swings onto the bike in front of me and kicks off the stand. He side-eyes me over his shoulder, and I hesitantly wrap my arms around his waist, my fingers gently tracing over his bare abs beneath the leather jacket.

After I tell him where to go, he revs the bike a couple of times before skidding us away at full speed, tires tearing over the ground.

After some time on the highway, the sun starts to dip, casting a soft amber glow over everything as we pull up to the lockup. Wrath kills the engine, and I swing off the bike, turning to face him.

“I’ll hopefully only be a few minutes,” I say, and he just stares while his hands grip the handlebars a little too tightly, like he’s fighting the urge to follow me inside.

I don’t wait for him to decide. I turn, pulling my hood up over my head and head straight for the door.

Inside, it’s dead quiet—just an older guy with glasses behind a desk, buried in paperwork. I approach, stopping in front of him, but he doesn’t acknowledge me, doesn’t even glance up.

I clear my throat, and he finally peers over his glasses at me for a second, then looks back down.

“Number.”

I tug my sleeves lower, swallowing thickly.

“2658,” I say that numbers that are burned into memory like a scar I can’t forget.

He taps on his keyboard, frowning, then sighs—and just like that, my stomach sinks.

“You haven’t paid for two years. You owe $1,476.”

I square my shoulders, heart sinking before my gaze drops to his name tag, hoping if I use it, he might be swayed.

“Well, I’m sorry, Ralph. I don’t have that right now.” I slide my hand into my pocket, pull out the crumpled bills Hell gave me, and place them on the desk. “But I have this. I can get the rest soon.”

He takes the money, counting each bill with slow fingers, before shaking his head and sliding it into his drawer.

“No can do. You need to pay in full. Your account’s way overdue, and we’re close to disposing your belongings.”

“But you haven’t yet, have you?” My voice spikes, panic crawling into it.

“Not yet, no.”

“Well, I need access to that locker today. I only need my phone. That’s it—just my phone. I’ve been locked away… I’ve been…”

“Oh, so you’re not only a freeloader, but you’re a criminal as well? Look, you need to pay in full.”

The accusations hit me with a smack and my head pulls back as my face twists in disbelief.

“Freeloader? Criminal?” I seethe. “You’re holding my things hostage, and I’ve offered you a down payment. That’s not fucking freeloading.”

He leans over the desk, his smug face inching closer, and I scowl, resisting the urge to punch him.

“No,” he breathes, the word final, thick with condescension.

But then the door swings open behind me, and I don’t even need to look, I already know it’s him.

My eyes close briefly and when I glance over my shoulder, Wrath ducks under the doorway, slipping inside like he owns the place. The door shuts behind him, and the uncomfortable silence is punctuated by his click of the lock.

He just stands there—tall, quiet and radiating the sort of danger that shoots a thrill through me. He looks… strange in the normal everyday world. But no less scary. If anything it’s far worse.

The guy behind the desk laughs, a dismissive sound, and I flash my wide gaze back to him, wondering if he has an actual death wish.

“You thought a Halloween performer would intimidate me?” he says with a snort, waving his hands out in front of him. “I’m not budging. Like I said—no freeloaders. No criminals. Get the fuck out or I’ll call the cops.”

Suddenly, something whips past my head, moving with lightning speed before embedding itself deep into the guy’s forehead with a sickening crack.

My heart lurches in my throat as I flinch, eyes expanded, watching as he stands frozen, gaze locked in death, before crumpling to the ground with a heavy thud.

I barely have time to process it before I hear the sound of Wrath’s heavy boots moving toward me. My breath catches as he lifts me effortlessly, like I’m nothing more than a doll and places me on the other side of the desk, away from the spreading pool of blood.

My eyes stay glued to lifeless Ralph sprawled on the floor as Wrath steps over with eerie calmness before crouching down next to him. His hand moves with a casual brutality, tearing a black metal ace card from the man’s forehead with a stomach-turning scrape.

“We should get out of here… the cops…” I stammer, my voice revealing the terror scratching at my insides.

Wrath doesn’t even look at me, his face a mask of indifference and he lifts two fingers, sticky with the blood, and presses them to the wall, starting to write slowly.

I am the law.

My brows pinch as he stands calmly, staring down at his murdered victim. He gathers spit on his tongue before letting it trail off, the glob landing with a disgusting plop on the man’s face. I stare with wide eyes, realizing he just left his DNA on him.

What the fuck? Is he really that untouchable?

Wrath’s eyes flash to mine before he tilts his chin toward the keys. I inhale deeply, shoving my shaky hands into my pockets and make my way to the back.

After finding the key and locker, Wrath stands behind me like a looming shadow the entire time, making my skin prickle with unease. I jam the key into the lock and twist. The door creaks open, and there it is—my bag. The one I haven’t seen in so long.

A relived breath escapes me, shoulders loosening just a little, but I can still feel him. Watching and waiting. I don’t need his voice to know—he’s trying to figure me out. What does she need so badly? What the fuck’s in the bag?

“It’s none of your business,” I mutter, yanking the bag out like I’m answering a question he didn’t even ask but definitely thought.

I sling it over my shoulder, slam the locker shut, and turn to face him. My gaze drags up his length until it meets his.

“But thanks for the ride, Wrath.” I add with a flutter of my lashes, poking at the hornet’s nest just because I can.

As soon as I try to pass him, his hand flies out fast, slamming me back against the locker with his grip around my throat, knocking the air out of me. Breathing heavily, his mouth dips close to mine, teeth bared in a growl and it’s a clear warning: stop testing me.

I roll my eyes and glance aside, jaw tight. I can’t help it. I’m a raging little bitch right now with a sharp tongue and an even sharper attitude, and if he wants me as much as he thinks he does, he’s just gonna have to deal with it.

After releasing me, he walks off, leaving me to trail behind him.

By the time we pull up to Oddity, the place is silent, swallowed in darkness. Wrath kills the engine but doesn’t move and I slide off the bike, boots hitting the gravel before glancing at him.

I hesitate, then step closer, the weight of his eyes pressing into me. He doesn’t try anything. So I act before he can demand.

I lean in, lips brushing his painted cheek in a soft, fleeting kiss. He visibly tenses, just slightly, but doesn’t pull away as I linger for a breath, then draw back slow, the tension thick between us.

“Thank you,” I whisper as our eyes lock again. “And that’s all you’re going to get,” I say, the hint of a smirk curling at my lips as I step away, pulse still racing.

His brow lifts like he’s already calling bullshit, then I slip the bag off my shoulder and dig for the pen, fingers brushing past everything until I find it.

I uncap it and start writing on my palm, quick and steady, his gaze never leaving my hands. Once it’s done, I hold it up without a word.

Last night, you missed my scars?

I ask him the question I’ve been holding back, the one I didn’t want to say out loud, but needed to ask. And somehow, putting it down in writing, letting the ink slip across my palm, feels easier—safer.

I realise I’m learning something about him, something about me, even if only for this moment. It’s more unsettling than I thought it would be, but it gives me an understanding of why he never speaks.

Words are sharp, they can split things open and rot when they’re exposed to air. And maybe he’s learned the hard way, like I have, that silence is sometimes better.

It’s less exposed, less raw. I don’t want to feel vulnerable, not yet, not with him. But in this quiet and in this twisted dance we’re doing, it almost feels right.

His red glowing eyes lock with mine the moment he reads the words, his jaw tensing. For a long second, he stares at me, searching my face like he’s trying to figure me out.

Then, he sits back, slips his hand into his pocket, and pulls out a small piece of paper. I watch intensely as he writes something down quickly, and it seems to be a lot before folding it into a small square.

He offers it to me perched between his tattooed fingers, the paper tauntingly just out of reach. I stretch for it, but before I can make contact, he pulls it back a fraction and gives a head gesture for me to leave after.

A frustrated breath escapes me, but he doesn’t have to ask twice, I snatch the paper, shooting him one last look, then turn, heading toward my trailer.

As I get to the door, I gently begin to peel open his piece of paper with eager hands, wanting to see what he said.

I did it to let you know, I didn’t just see your perfect naked body or an empty canvas waiting to be filled. I saw every fractured part of you—every scar and wound you tried to bury. I saw the darkness you carry, and it was fucking beautiful.

But now it eats at me, little corpse. Someone else made you feel pain before I ever could. It frustrates me, because I’ll have to rip it all open again, morph that agony, bend it, and slice it deep enough to erase the ghosts of them. And when I’m done, it’ll all be mine.

I’ll rewrite you in such a way, no one else could ever hurt or touch you the way I do—not even in your nightmares or your memories.

As I read each word, my heart pounds faster, my fingers trembling. Why does this feel like both poetry and a threat, woven together with a sick elegance?

I guess because it is. That maddening, insane bastard.

I let out a shaky breath, shoving the paper into my pocket and reach for the door, pushing the handle down.

Once I step inside, the darkness greets me like an old friend. The door clicks shut behind me before I head straight for my bedroom, my hand already reaching for my phone to plug it in.

But as soon as I push the door open, I hear the unmistakable sound of wood colliding with metal, and my brows furrow in confusion.

I flick the light switch and my eyes immediately widen, my breath catching in my throat as I take in the sight before me.

The ceiling is covered and bolted in chains—thick, black, heavy chains that seem to hang like some twisted, macabre decoration.

Some have sharp, glinting hooks attached to the bottom, swaying slightly in the still air, their cruel edges catching the light as if they’re waiting for something, or someone to attach.

Each chain is adorned with a pieces of black paper, the words written in blood-red ink, and the drawings of my face in white charcoal, seem to be different emotions in each one.

Afraid, distorted, angry, or broken. Black thorned vines and roses, splattered with blood, coil and twist around the chains in an intricate, horrifying dance.

I step forward, bag hitting the floor in shock, my body moving on its own. My wide eyes catch the double mirrored wardrobe doors, and I freeze. Words are sprawled across the glass. Some large, some so small I can barely make them out. But they’re there. They’re everywhere.

“What the fuck…” I whisper under my breath, my hand unsteady as I reach out for one of the papers hanging from a chain.

The words blur together, every one sinking deeper into my skin, into my bones, as I read each one note, compelled and unable to stop myself. It’s like I’m trapped in a dream, a nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

Hang for me.

Your scars are beautiful. But I want to leave more.

My little corpse.

Allure, I’ll make you crave it.

Breathe for me, even if the toxicity kills you.

The phrases come at me, slashing through my mind, each one leaving an imprint, a stain.

The chains creak above me, like they’re whispering to each other while I move through them.

Gold eyes, dim fucking soul. I see you.

Your scream is my favorite sound.

Big mouth, bigger eyes when you’re scared for me.

Wrath + Aurelia.

Broken, but only mine to break.

Beautiful in your madness.

Feel me, even when you don’t want to.

Even after death, it’ll always be us.

Mine.

Hear me, when I don’t speak.

I'll haunt you in ways not even your ghosts dare to.

You’ll beg for me to stop, but I’ll never listen.

Your body talks to me. Traitorous little thing.

I can’t breathe, can’t fucking think straight. His obsession wraps around me, and suffocates me, and there’s nothing I can do to escape it.

He must have done this this morning when I was training. And he took me to that fucking locker knowing this was all waiting for me when I got home.

I turn in an instant I lean down, rummage through my bag for my charger, plug it in, then rush out of the trailer into the night to go and confront him.

As I approach the Hollows trailer, my feet walk faster than my frantic heartbeat. I’m torn between anger and awe, my mind reeling from the constant pull and push of this unhinged man.

I don’t bother knocking. I shove the door open and step inside, but the trailer is silent and empty. No sign of Wrath or Soul.

I move through the kitchen, heading straight for the back of the trailer, where I think Wrath’s room is. As I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks. The black door stares back at me and every fiber of my body screams to turn around and leave. To forget this, to run in the other direction. But my mind refuses to back down. I can’t. Not now. I’m here.

I step forward, each movement heavy with tension, my heart thumping like a war drum in my chest. I reach for the door, hand trembling, but I push through the fear, twisting the handle with force.

As soon as I step inside, my eyes dart around, taking in the suffocating, oppressive darkness. The walls and ceiling are drenched in matte black, every inch covered in faded, rushed red writing and it’s frantic, like a mind long gone.

There’s no windows, no escape, but at the far end of the room, a large round bed looms. A sheer black curtain is drawn loosely around it, black sheets and pillows scattered carelessly across the mattress.

I step further into the room, the door quietly shutting behind me. Chains hang from the ceiling, more than in my trailer, more domineering, more deliberate. They coil around the bed to be used as restraints, waiting and gleaming under the dull, red glow of a lone bulb.

I can almost feel the metal on my skin, the cold bite of it as I imagine the horrors that must unfold in here. This is his domain, a place where only darkness reigns, where pain and silence blend.

Moving forward, my feet barely whisper over the black, chipped wood floors. I’ve stupidly wandered into his den, and if he comes back and finds me here... Fuck knows what he’ll do.

I’m just about to turn and leave, every instinct tearing at me to get out, when something catches my eye. To my right, tucked against the wall, sits a heavy black dresser with a large, cracked mirror framed above it. A matching chair sits crookedly in front, shoved back like he left in a hurry.

Papers spill across the surface in a chaotic mess, some crumpled and fallen onto the floor like discarded thoughts he couldn’t bear to look at.

Something pulls me forward until I’m standing over it, peering down. Drawings, hundreds of them, look back at me. Faces, bodies, eyes too wide, mouths half-screaming, all scrawled in violent strokes.

A black quill rests beside the chaos, and next to it, a small pot of ink so dark and thick it almost gleams. But the colour... it’s wrong. It’s too deep, too viscous and far too much like blood.

My eyes drift back to the red words scrawled across the walls, something cold and heavy settling in my chest.

It probably is.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck have I got myself into?

My shaky hand drags across my mouth, trying to steady my shallow breathing, while the other gently trembles through the scattered drawings.

Women.

But every single one looks the same, and they all strangely look similar to me. Sketched in obscene, brutal poses, captured like he’s seen them that way firsthand. Like he’s lived it.

Not to mourn it. Not to regret it. But to remember it.

To etch it into his memory so he never forgets and the realization slams into me harder than fear itself. Because this isn’t just fantasy for him. This is far more than that. This is real.

Their hair looks like mine, long, straight and black, but their faces are odd. Twisted, blurred and unfamiliar. Not like the ones he drew for my trailer. Those lookedexactlylike me. This feels different. It’s like I’m staring through the lens of his disturbed mind.

Are these his fucking victims? Or are they... me, in pieces I don’t recognize yet? I can’t tell.

My hand falters as I notice tiny numbers scratched at the bottom of the pages—dates and I realize each one was drawn long before I ever set foot here.

I’m not special. He has a type and I’m just next on the list.

The awareness curdles in my gut, hot, sick and far too true. I feel the rage burning through me, that usual betrayal stirring in my veins.

“Another using bastard.” I bite out viciously through clenched teeth.

I drop the paper in my hand and yank open the draw beneath the desk. At first all I see is more drawings, until I dip my hand inside, quickly pushing everything aside until I feel something hard and cold.

I pull it free and stare down at the gun, heavy in my hand. Black and silver with red engraved swirls wrapping around the long, thick barrel.