Page 15

Wrath

After repainting my face and sliding the red, spiraling contacts back into my eyes, I jog down the stairs with a black towel slung low around my waist. Still damp from the upstairs shower, since mine is still fucked, I rake my fingers through my wet hair as I cut through the kitchen, heading for my room to get dressed.

My mind spins impatiently.

I can’t stop thinking about her and what she thought of my little gift today. What her face looked like when she saw my words, the chains. If she hated it. If she liked it. If she’s trembling even now, thinking of me. Wondering where I am and if I’m watching through the window.

I’m not patient enough to sit with the questions for long. As soon as I’m in some clothes, I’m going to her. And this time, I won’t leave anything for her to misunderstand.

As soon as I’m close to my bedroom door, I push the handle down, walking straight inside, slamming it behind me. But I stop cold, feeling something shoot through my senses. I don’t move as my eyes glide around the room until they land on my desk, the drawer hanging half open.

My eyes close, head tilting back as I inhale deeply, my chest expanding. I can fucking smell her. That suffocating sweet sting of her fear clawing at my lungs.

And she’s still in here. What a silly little thing. Wandering in the one place I can keep her and never let her go.

I spin on my heel, fists clenched at my sides, my body tense as I look around again until I lock focus on the double doors of my built in wardrobe. My eyes narrow before I take slow, calculated steps toward it, weaving through the chains like a venomous snake ready to strike.

Reaching out, I yank both doors open, revealing Aurelia standing between my clothes, her stance rigid but defiant.

She stares at me, gold eyes sharp, with my gun pointed directly at my chest. Her hands tremble slightly, but the weapon remains steady in her grasp.

My jaw tenses, chin raised in quiet disdain as my arms fall, and I take a single, lazy step back.

This is fucking typical of her—my little corpse, always wants to have the upper hand. And here she is, inmyspace, inmyfucking room, with the audacity to havemy own gun aimed at me.

The girl’s got some serious balls, I’ll give her that.

Her eyes slowly sweep down, lingering on my wet body, and I feel the twitch in my fingers. The urge to disarm her, to take her by the throat, slam her down onto my bed and show her what real fear feels like. It’s a torturous deprivation that’s coiling around my spine.

She hovers on the towel, the hesitation thick between us as she thinks about what’s beneath it for a second. But then she blinks, fast and frantic, trying to shake off her thoughts.

She reaches up, yanks a pair of my sweats from the hanger, tossing them at me and I catch them.

“Put some clothes on, circus boy.” She spits the words out like hatred, and she’s disgusted by me. Like I’m not exactly what she wants, and she’s not already tangled in my web.

I lift a brow but do what she asks, because tonight, I’m quite chill to play the power play games. I calmly tug my towel off, letting it fall to the floor and of course her eyes immediately land on my dick.

Her breathing gets heavier before she swallows hard, her gaze flicking back to mine. We stare at each other, the tension between us shifting to something far more dangerous, and I can’t hold it anymore, I step forward, but she instantly aims the gun squarely.

“Don’t!” she shouts at me, and I stop.

She struggles for breath, and I just watch her, the way she fights with everything inside her not to let me have her the way I want.

I straighten again, my teeth grinding. I’m not worried about her shooting me. Death doesn’t scare me, clearly. And if she really wanted me dead, she would have tried it by now. I’ll let her have her moment of control before I snap it right away from her.

I drop my sweats to my legs, stepping into them, but my eyes never leave hers. Once I’ve pulled them on, she flicks the gun toward the bed.

“Sit down,” she commands breathlessly.

I almost roll my eyes, already bored. I turn and push the curtain aside, taking a seat on the edge. I watch Aurelia as she exits the wardrobe, the gun trained on me the entire time.

I stare from a short distance as she lifts one of my drawings, showing it to me as if I didn’t draw it myself and my gaze lingers on the woman, bound, distorted and mangled.

“This isn’t me, is it?” she asks, her voice filled with sharp suspicion.

My head tilts slightly, my eyes cold and unblinking before she continues.

“Then why the fuck does she kind of look like me? You have a type? Is that all I am? Just another sick fucking fantasy you’re trying to chase? Another body to tick off your necro list?”

Her words are a slap to the face, much harder than I expected. I feel my teeth grate before I bite down on my tongue, trying to suppress the anger that rises up inside of me.

She thinks she’s nothing superior. Just another carcase. Another victim. Another fucking death. She couldn’t be more wrong.

She doesn’t understand. I’ve never looked at anyone the way I look at her. She’s been different from the moment I first saw her. I want her to live.

Yeah, she looks eerily similar to the blurred woman in my nightmares, the one that’s haunted me almost every damn night for as long as I can remember. The one that often drives me into psychosis. Making me hear her whispers. Words I can’t seem to decipher, even when I write them down.

But that’s not the reason I want Aurelia. It’s not the reason I can’t stop staring and stalking. There’s something else. Something darker and deeper.

But I can’t tell her that. My voice isn’t ready to be heard. It’s stuck in my throat, pathetic and trapped, but begging to be let out, yet my mind won’t let it. It’s never been easy to use my voice, especially not to someone who might never understand my words.

I’ve been drawing the same woman for years, and it’s not even sexual. It’s not about some twisted obsession with a body. It’s an impulse. A compulsion to work out why she keeps appearing in my thoughts. Why she lingers there like a shadow. I’ve tried—fuck, I’ve tried everything to get her out of my head.

I’ve done things when the darkness gets too much to bear. Horrific things. Trying to recreate her. The ropes that bound her. The position I see her in, over and over again in my mind. Like I need to see it to be able to unsee it. Like I need to relive it to fucking understand it, to make it stop.

But it never does. It never leaves. It’s become a miserable focus point in my fucked life. Mix that with my sickness, the impulse to kill when I fuck, and this is what I am. I guess I deserve it. Monsters like me deserve to have something taunting and haunting them, it’s only fucking fair.

Suddenly, Aurelia snatches a pen from my desk and hurls it at me, her eyes blazing with an emotion I haven’t seen in her before… hurt.

It’s sharp and makes something inside me stir that I’ve never encountered before.

“Tell me,” she barks, her voice cutting through the room.

I just watch her for a moment, blinking blankly. How unusual she is. She already thinks I’m lost, and she’s right. So, what’s one more thing to add to her mental list of why she shouldn’t want me?

I break the eye contact, my gaze falling to my open palm, the pen already pressed to my skin.

When I finish, I look up, and she’s already inching closer. As soon as she stops in front of me, her eyes drop to my hand resting on my thigh.

It’s not you. And It’s not one of them.

“Then who is it?” Her voice trembles slightly as she asks.

I don’t know. She’s always been there.

I write beneath it before lifting my hand and pointing to my temple.

She stares down at me, gun still aimed at my head, eyes frantically searching mine. It’s like she’s looking for something that makes sense, but she won’t find it. I can barely fucking make sense of myself, let alone try to explain it to her.

I’ve never had to explain myself. Everyone’s just let me do what the fuck I do because it’s normal to us. Then I have this beautiful little thing in front of me suddenly, who expects me to be… different.

But that’s not fucking me.

That’s not any of us are here. We’re sadistic and morally fucked-up. Born from absolute hell, thriving on pleasure, feeding on pain, and drinking down fear like it’s our fucking oxygen.

Without warning, I yank her hand aggressively, pulling her closer. She flinches, the gun barely held steady in her other fist as I gaze down at her palm.

You’re different. You’re not like them. You’re still alive—still fucking breathing—and I still want you. This… whatever the fuck we are… I don’t give this to anyone else. When the fuck are you going to understand that?

As soon as she’s read it, I take full advantage, fed up with the big bullshit act. My hands shoot out, grabbing her waist with a violent force, driving her downward to straddle my lap, her pussy slamming onto me.

Her eyes go wide, body taunt, but she keeps the gun pressed against my chest, her breathing erratic.

I remain expressionless, my darkening red gaze trailing over every curve of her body, ravenous, wanting nothing more than to tear and stretch her tiny cunt apart, taste her insides in a way that ain’t humanly possible.

She doesn’t realize how fucking hard I’m holding back. How much I’m restraining myself from being the violent, murderous, and uncontrollable cunt that’s always begging to surface.

Just. For. Her.

“No,” she murmurs, the barrel of the gun digging harder into my skin. “I’m tired of your deranged shit. This ends tonight.”

My eyes flash, and I lift a brow, a dare in my eyes. Suddenly, my hand snaps out, snatching the back of her neck in a punishing hold, dragging her mouth closer to mine. I bare my teeth in frustration, a hiss slipping through, and her eyes squeezing shut.

She’s so fucking na?ve sometimes. Too proud, too damn stubborn to see the truth bleeding out around her. She fights it like it matters, like she isn’t already into me, but she’s never been closer to me than she is now, and she’ll never crawl far enough to ever escape it.

Her eyes slowly blink open, locking straight onto mine. And there it is again. Her gaze drops to my lips, and I notice it, the small, but definitely there, surrender.

She lifts the gun, pressing it to my temple instead, while her other arm snakes around my shoulders. Her fingers tremor as they weave through the long waves at the back of my wet hair as she leans against me, pressing her tits on my pecs.

The touch sends an unexpected shiver straight down to my dick, my eyes heavy. I’ve never been touched like that before. Never let anyone get close enough.

“I shouldn’t want you, Wrath,” she confesses, the words coming out like a dying prayer. “You’ll be the death of me... and I... I’ll be the thing that drags you back to hell, where you belong.”

Her breaths fan against my lips, soft and warm as she inches closer, but just when they’re about to touch, I turn my head slightly, looking away.

I don’t do that.

Never have.

Sure, I fuck, to the point of no return, but intimacy has never been my… thing. For obvious fucking reasons.

That... making out... it’s not something I give a fuck about. Not when it’s classed as some kind of… affection.

Full of hope and false fucking promises. That’s all it’ll ever give.

Why would I give anyone that when they always gonna end up dead by my cruel hands anyway? It’s probably the only thing I’ve ever been able to stop myself from doing.

“But I thought I was different,” she whispers, more fact than question, but she says it in a way that annoys me.

It sounds almost like disappointment. She’s reading me too fucking fast, faster than anyone ever has. Even Hell didn’t get it this quick.

When I look at her, it’s brief, a flick of my eyes before I’m tearing my gaze away again.

Fuck’s sake.

My infuriating little fucking corpse. What are you doing to me?

“Hmmm. So you don’t speak, and you don’t want my lips on yours.”

She suddenly purrs the words, switching tactic, and there’s something reckless in them now, something a little too brazen. The cold steel of my gun presses harder against my temple as she shifts in my lap, deliberately grinding her warm cunt along the length of my hard cock and my teeth bite while I glance down, watching, feeling.

“So what is that mouth good for, Wrath?” When she finishes, my red eyes snap up to hers, burning with a crazed intensity.

Her breath stutters, just for a second, but I catch it. I feel the change in her, the way realisation slithers its way up her fucking spine, too late to take her dirty words back.

She’s playing games with the wrong one.

And deadly games we shall play.

When she steps off me, feeling the shift in my mood, I let her. Even though my body is now vibrating, every sick and depraved instinct in me howling to grab her, pin her to my bed, and split her asshole wide open on my cock until she’s bleeding and crying for me to stop.

I stay seated and fuckingseethein it.

Because what’s coming next?

It’s going to ruin and change her forever.

And I’m going to enjoy every fucking horrifying second of it.

Aurelia starts to walk backward, gun aimed at me as if it’s going to save her life. Which is kind of cute in a fucked-up way.

Don’t worry, my little corpse. I’ll take the bullet. But you best hope you aim to kill me, because nothing—nothing—is gonna stop me from completely and utterly brutalizing you tonight.

She opens my door, shuffling out of it, eyes never leaving mine before she slams it shut. I instantly stand, staring at the spot where she was. And my fists clench tightly as I step from one foot to the other.