Page 6

Wrath

I stand outside one of her living room windows, peeking around the frame with one red eye, my breath shallow. The rainy night wraps around me, veiling me in darkness, but all I see isher as she steps inside the kitchen, wrapped in nothing but a towel, damp strands of black hair clinging to her back.Dripping. Bare. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

My fingers twitch, curling into fists so tight my nails bite into my palms. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it, grinding my teeth, fighting the sadistic, killer instinct that’s threatening to consume me.

All I have to do is break in, rip that towel from her little body and fuck her violently until she’s dead. That’s all it’ll take. One fleeting fucking moment of terrifying bliss and she’ll be mine forever.

Fuck.

I shouldn’t be here, and I shouldn’t be watching. She shouldn’t even be here. But how the fuck am I gonna stay away now I’ve seen her? I’ve never had to resist before. Never had to stop myself fromtaking, ruining, deleting.I see, I want, I fucking take. That’s how it’s always been.

The second I saw her, something inside me shattered. There was this strange feeling in my gut, and I never feel. I have no emotion inside of me, but I was drawn to her like nothing I’d ever felt before.

She wasmeant to be for me.Meant to be ripped apart and killed beneath me. But then Noir saidsister, and for the first time, something almost like hesitation slithered up my spine.

Not guilt. Never fucking guilt. Just a sick, twistedcomplication.

Hell didn’t have to speak. I saw it in his eye. His silent warning and command.

Don’t kill her.

For the first time in our lives, he’s asking me to fucking chain myself, and leash the sick monster I am.

I should walk away, but I won’t. Ican’t. Because now, the hunger to have her hanging for me is worse. My fingers itch to wrap around that delicate throat, to feel the last pulse of life under my grip, to see her go still and silent as I’m violating her pussy .

I’d do anything for my brother. But this? This is too much, and he fucking knows it.

My focused gaze never leaves her as she drifts toward the kitchen counter, stopping in front of the sandwich Noir made before leaving. She pauses, a war behind those pretty ice-blue eyes, but eventually, she gives in and lifts it, taking the smallest bite.

My attention slides to the bandage wrapped around her upper arm and the images of what I saw flash through my mind. The blood, the way her body trembled and how shescreamed so beautifullywhen she tore herself open.

And fuck, it was enough to get me hard and almost break in. Something dark coils inside me as I think about the rawness of it. How I could make her scream like that again but by my own hands.

My mouth. My dick. My fucking knife.

My wet fingers tic at my sides again, feeling a phantom sensation of her body beneath me. Icouldmake her feel that way again, but a different kind of suffering andhelplessness. I could paint her body in ways only we could ever understand.

A slow exhale leaves me, controlled and measured.

No. I tell myself, trying to reel in my deranged mindset. Not yet. Not ever.

She sets the sandwich down after eating more than half, before moving toward my rain splattered window, still chewing. I dip back slightly as she kneels onto the couch and reaches for the black curtains, but before she can close it, I step out into the light.

Her eyes widen, a petrified squeak escaping her as she flies backward, tumbling onto the floor. Now on her knees, I observe her scared reaction with my head tilted to the side. Her black hair covers her face while her head is low, readjusting the towel around her body.

What a pretty fucking sight. On her knees, just for me.

I can see her breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. But when she flicks her hair away from her eyes, I’m met with something far more electrifying—an evil glare that slices through the space between us and all I can do is stare, mesmerized.

She’s fucking perfect. A contradiction wrapped in flesh, a little brave and a little terrified all at once. But she’s also infuriating. I could feel it when I faced her in my kitchen, the way she planted her feet like she stood a fucking chance. Her eyes burned with defiance, daring and challenging me.

She’ll fight me with everything she has, but little does she know, that’ll be my favorite part.

She suddenly moves, her body stiff as she stands. My eyes track her movements as she storms toward the window, her fingers trembling just as she reaches for the curtains and with one swift yank, she closes them, shutting me out.

Or at least, she thinks she has.

My jaw tightens, a slow burn of disdain curling through me like smoke. I slip a hand into my pocket, tattooed fingers brushing against the worn leather handle of my knife. I pull it free, turning it in my palm, watching as the dim light catches on the curved red blade. My name is carved deep into the black, leather grip, a signature of what I am.

Hollow Wrath.

Empty, silent and deadly.

They didn’t give me that name, I fuckingearnedit the hard way. There’s nothing left inside me but the echo of screams and the silence that comes after. The Shadows whispered it to me the night I stopped being something soft.

They said I was born from the space between vengeance and nothingness. My wrath wasn’t just hollow—it wasfurious and hungry .

I wear these colour contacts because normal pupils weren’t made for the kind of hell I’ve seen. They glow red because I don’t justwatchevil, Isee from it. I’m the fucking definition of it.

Calmly, I turn, tilting my head as the urge to break in hums inside me, but I don’t rush. There’s no need. With measured steps, I start moving, circling the trailer like a shadow, my boots sinking into the muddy puddles.

She’s in there, heart hammering. I can feel it.

She thinks she’s safe where she is.

She ain’t.

She never fucking will be now I’ve seen her.

I stop outside the window on the other side, and there she is. Standing in the middle of the living room, her back to me, staring at the same window I was just at. Her shoulders rise and fall as she tries to control her breathing. The fear she tried so hard to bury is now clawing its way to the surface.

She’s confused. But don’t worry, my little corpse. So am I. We’re in this confusion together.

I lift my blade, the edge glistening as I bring it to the glass.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

She freezes, the tightness in her body coiling like a thread pulled to its breaking point. And then, after a few seconds, she spins, her wide, frantic eyes locking onto mine. The tension between us crackles, snapping us both into this moment, into this sick and perfect symmetry.

Without breaking eye contact, I press the blade to the tip of my finger and slice across it. The pain is a fleeting graze against my skin before I lift my hand, the blood warm as it smears across the rain-streaked glass.

HI.

Her eyes flick over the letters again and again, her mind trying to process it. The rain makes the blood drip, trailing downward like creepy, twisting vines, yet still, she doesn’t react. So, I continue.

With slow, deliberate strokes, I press my bleeding fingertip to the glass once more.

I LICK YOU.

I watch as her expression shift from terror to confusion.

Did I mean I like you? Did I mean exactly what I wrote? Am I just incapable of fucking spelling? The questions run through her beautiful little mind, I can see it in the way her lips part slightly and the slight furrow of her brow.

Her gaze lifts to mine, and instead of fear, something steadier settles in. Her eyes narrow, just enough for me to notice, before relaxing, then, slowly, she steps closer.

When she’s right in front of the window, she kneels, bringing her face level with mine and with just the glass between us, it drives me fucking crazy. I can almost feel the darkness twisting inside me, snaking through my bloodstream, whispering for me to shatter the fragile fucking barrier between us. To reach through the shards, to touch her, to feel her beneath my hands and make her scream.

She stares into my red eyes and there’s no dread or anger, just a blank, emotionless void. She’s playing with me now. I can’t read her anymore and the realization sends an unexplained thrill through me.

After a moment, she leans in, so close that I can see the way her mouth barely opens before fog of her breath spreads across the cold glass. And then, carefully, she lifts her hand and drags her finger through the condensation.

FUCK YOU.

I feel my lip twitch. A smirk almost there, but it fades as quickly as I felt it.

Oh, my little corpse. You have no idea what you’ve just started.

My eyes darken, a shadow creeping in as my teeth grind together. The audacity and bravery she has but still has no clue who she’s fucking with makes me like this thing between us even more... exciting.

Without warning, I smack the tip of my knife against the glass, and she recoils, her breath hitching.

Calmly, I press against the surface and drag it downward and the glass groans in protest, the sound high and grating, almost like a scream while I carve each letter carefully.

WITH MY PLEASURE.

I quickly turn the knife in my hand before driving my fist into the glass. The impact sends a violent shudder through the window, cracks splintering outward like a spiderweb, crawling toward the edges. The sound is explosive, deafening in the silent night and she jerks back in response to my sudden violence.

I flash my teeth with a snarl before my tongue darts out, the two silver hoops that pierce each side of the tip glinting as I drag it slowly and deliberately over the word lick, n ow letting her know exactly what I fucking meant.

My blood smears across my tastebuds, rich and metallic, mixing with the rain streaking down the glass. And her eyes expand further, but she doesn’t run like she should. She just sits there, staring at me, trying to figure me and my next move out.

My grip squeezes around the knife as I turn my head, my gaze flicking to the front door on my left. It’s nothing but a flimsy piece of fucking plastic. One good kick, and I’d be inside.

As if she senses my menacing thoughts, she shifts, slow, cautious, like she’s trying not to set me off. My crimson eyes flash to her as she stands, then steps back, but I no longer over think it. I just fucking move.

My boots pound against the wet ground as I rush toward the door in a frenzy state of mind, desperate to be near her. My hand slams down on the handle, rattling under my grip, but the second I do; I spot her silhouette behind the frosted glass, and I stop.

My breath comes out harsh and fast as my fingers flex, trying to regain my self-control. After a few seconds, surprisingly, I growl, tearing my hand away.

Reaching into my leather jacket, I yank out a torn scrap of paper and pen, my hand moving rough and fast as I scrawl jagged letters across it.

Always sleep with one eye open, little corpse. Rest in peace.

Then, I crouch and slip it under the door.

I wait, watching her reluctance before she finally reaches down and once she has it, I force myself to step back into the shadows, turning around and disappear into the dense woodland.

After walking a short distance, I spot Hell standing outside The Dismembered Den. A place where I mostly work alone and do some horrific shit to people. It looks like a small, broken-down cabin surrounded by trees, like something from a horror movie, but something dwells far worse inside and beneath it.

As soon as he hears my heavy boots over the wet, crackling growth, he turns around to face me, a cig dangling from his lips. He exhales a long stream of smoke through his nose, watching me closely as I pass him, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

I know the second he gets the chance, he’s gonna start asking about this chick that’s suddenly set my balls on fucking fire, and honestly, I don’t give a shit. I don’t want to hear it or explain it. I just want what the fuck I want.

Her.

I aim straight for the rotting wooden door, and the stench of decay welcomes me as I push it open, hinges groaning like something alive.

The air is stale, carrying the kind of death that seeps into your skin and stays there. I glance around, walking deeper as chains dangle from the ceiling, their rusted hooks swaying, whispering against each other as if they know daddy’s home.

The floor creaks under my weight as Hell follows inside, closing the door, but I don’t even acknowledge him. I just move straight for the heavy, rust-stained door at the back, gripping the handle and forcing it open with a sharp yank.

The smell that wafts up from the steep stairs is far worse—dirt, mould and something lethal. It’s a foul smell only us killers could ever get used to.

But underground is where the real work happens.

I jog down the metal stairs, moving through the short corridor before shoving open the door on my left.

My red eyes lock onto the couple strapped to separate surgeon tables, their bodies completely still. Only their eyes move, darting to me, wide and full of terror.

I rip off my leather jacket, tossing it onto a chair, leaving me shirtless just as Hell steps in behind me, shutting the door with a click.

“So what am I here for?”

I grab a pair of black latex gloves from the cabinet, pulling them over my tatted fingers. My gaze lifts to him before flicking to the small, ball-sized object near him, then to the guy, instructing him with just my eyes.

Hell looks at it, already knowing I want the bomb inserted inside him and raises a brow.

“And you couldn’t do that yourself?”

My jaw clenches as I glance away, picking up a long, sharp needle with black thread. I could do it myself, but my hands aren’t steady enough for surgery tonight. Not after seeing her. I’d end up killing him too soon, so I texted Hell on the way here.

Hell sighs, shrugging off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves, getting ready to do what I asked.

“What the fuck are they here for?” He asks, still pressing and trying to make small talk.

I don’t answer as my eyes drop to the woman in front of me, swollen, terrified eyes streaked with tears, locked on mine. It’s the only thing either of them can do. They’re fucking paralyzed. Only kept alive by meds and tubes connected to their dying veins.

They can’t move, can’t scream, can’t even hear. I took care of that already. Their vocal cords and eardrums are severed. Realistically, I did it so they can’t piss me off, but they fucking are. They’ve been alive far too long as it is, but it’s not time yet.

I don’t like the way she looks at me. All pleading and shit as if she’s searching for a soul inside me that just isn’t there. So tonight, while Hell inserts that bomb, I’m sewing her annoying green eyes shut for good.

I would usually just scoop them out, but the client wanted me to keep them intact so he could witness her fear before her doom.

Typical sadist.

I poise the needle over her right eye, my hand jittering and I notice Hell pauses, watching me from across the small room. I can almost hear his thoughts. The judgement. The questions buzzing on the tip of his tongue, but I grit my teeth and shake my head once, trying to shove Arabella’s pretty face out of my mind.

This hasn’t happened before. She’s done something to me from the second I looked into her fucking eyes. Yeah, I’ve always been an agitated motherfucker, and I have this twisted need inside me, but this is different. It’s under my skin, swarming through my veins, making my senses unsteady.

“You good?” Hell asks, his voice low.

I side-eye him, hating that he can read me so well.

Pushing her to the dark corners of my mind once again, I refocus, and hand comes down, the sharp needle piercing the woman’s bottom lid before hooking underneath and pushing it through the top. I pull tight, the thread slicing into her skin, forcing her eye tightly shut. Blood wells instantly, mixing with her tears, streaking down the side of her face in thin red paths.

Her other eye, wide, glassy and frozen in terror, stares straight at me, but not for long. I press the needle in again, slower this time, dragging the thread through her tender flesh with more force than necessary.

“Wonna talk about it?” Hell pushes, hands coated in blood, voice tinged with that fake calmness he does when he knows I’m on the brink of losing my damn mind completely.

Talk about it? Like he doesn’t already know I don’t talk. Yeah, I choose to sometimes, but only to him and Soul. Even then, it’s rare and minimal. Single words or a few sentences at most, nothing more. Me and Soul don’t need words. We sign—our own fucked-up version no one else could ever understand.

But Hell? He doesn’t need to sign. He’s got this gift where he reads me too fucking well, picks up on shit I don’t want him to, and yet, he still pushes, still digs his fingers into wounds I don’t want opened.

He’s the most psychotic motherfuck to the outside world, feared by all here, but to me and Soul, he’s just the big brother. The leader of the Hollows, and he takes that role like it’s the only thing keeping his black fucking heart beating.

He’s dragged me back from the edge more times than I can count, but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

“No,” I growl, sharp, low, and laced with warning, hoping he will take the answer and move the fuck on.

But I know exactly why he’s pushing. This is about Noir. They have this thing, this weird, can’t-breathe-without-each-other bullshit. I get it, she makes him feel something, and he clings to that like she’s his last fucking thread of sanity. And me screwing and killing her sister? Yeah, that’ll snap that thread clean in two.

“Me and Noir are leaving tomorrow,” he says while inserting the bomb inside the guy, tucking it away between his organs. “Am I gonna have to call the whole thing off just to stop you from…”

My teeth grind, my muscles locking into place, and my eyes snap to him. He doesn’t even look at me, just keeps moving his hands inside the guy’s body, blood squelching between his fingers, face taut.

“I’m not saying you can’t play,” he mutters. “Just don’t fucking unalive her.”

Easier said than done.

Every time I’ve fucked a chick, my murderous hands always find her neck. It’s instinct, an itch buried so deep inside me that I don’t even realize I’m scratching it until it’s too late. I squeeze, watching the light flicker and die, feeling her body go slack beneath me. It’s not even about control. Not really. It’s about the moment—the shift between life and death, the way it seeps out of them like a whispered fucking secret. It turns me on so much, it’s like a sadistic drug I can’t stop taking.

I don’t know how to do it any other way. I never have. Even if I wanted to, I don’t think I could stop. It’s a compulsion, a need so ingrained in me it might as well be stitched into my fucking DNA.

He’s asking the impossible.

I don’t think a woman has ever survived me.

That’s why I stay the fuck away if I can and keep to myself, until the urge gets too strong, the craving too loud. Then it’s back to the same cycle. Hunt. Fuck. Kill. And continue to fuck until I’m satisfied.

Then, if I’ve really fucking lost it, so deep in the void that nothing else matters, I might even position and preserve them. Or if I’m feeling sentimental, I give them a little coffin, tuck them in nice and tight like a fucking bedtime story.

Hell doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know how deep this sickness runs. He kills because he has to most of the time. Yeah he gets a kick out of it, but I kill because I fucking need to. Because the moment I feel their body turn to nothing but coldness in my hands, I know, without a doubt, I was meant to do it.

I roll my shoulders, pushing his demand away, willing it to rot like everything else I don’t deal with.

“I want to hear you say it, Wrath.” He steps away from the body, wiping his hands on a rag. “I don’t ask for much, but this… I’m asking you for this.”

I yank the last thread tight with a sharp tug, snarling under my breath. He waits, eyes drilling into the side of my fucking skull, expecting me to give him what he needs. Reassurance.

Fuck’s sake. He’s serious.

“Fine,” I bite through my teeth just to get him off my back, tossing the bloodied needle onto the metal tray, the clang echoing through the room.

If he were anyone else, they’d already have my knife in their throat for thinking they can tell me what to do. But this is Hell, so I let it slide.

After he seems done and satisfied with my answer, he steps toward me, his hand finding my shoulder, squeezing hard. His way of saying thanks and probably making sure I heard him.

I don’t react and let him think he’s got what he wants. He turns, grabs his jacket, slings it over his shoulder, but when he stops at the door, his eye flicks back like he’s checking and making sure I won’t snap the second he’s gone. Then he leaves.

After I’m finished in The Dismembered Den for the night, I end up here. Rain soaks through my clothes, dripping from my dark hair and slides down the blade in my grip. My breathing is slow, steady, controlled, but inside? Inside, it’s fucking chaos.

Her trailer is dark. No lights or movement. She’s in there, sleeping and vulnerable.

My teeth bite down as my fingers twitch.

I need to see her.

Not just the fight in her eyes, not the disobedience, not the way she looked at me through that glass like she wasn’t already mine. No. I need this version. The quiet and softness. The moment before I decide what to do with her.

I groan, my eyes rolling back as I tilt my head, allowing the rain to drench my painted face.

Maybe I’ll touch her, feel the heat of her skin under my cold fingertips, trace the shape of her jaw, press my hand flat over her throat and feel the steady pulse of her life.

The need burns through me, sinking deep, tearing at my ribs, tightening around my lungs, making my balls throb.

My knife swiftly stabs forward before I can stop myself, the tip shoving into the flimsy lock with deadly precision and I twist.

Click.

With my other hand, I press the handle down, open the door slowly, my grip tightening around my knife and step inside.

I move down the short hallway silently, knowing exactly where I’m going. Carefully pushing the bedroom door open with my palm, my eyes lock onto her the second I see her.

I stop under the threshold, tilting my head as I take her in. She’s lying on her stomach, arms tucked under the pillow, face half-hidden by her shoulder.

Her long, black hair spills across the sheets and the dim light catches the side curve of her braless tit, soft and squashed against the mattress. The sheet clings low on her back, teasing the bare skin just above her ass.

I take steps forward before sliding my hood down and crouch beside the bed. My gaze sweeps over the length of her, tracing the gentle rise and fall of her breath. She’s warm. I can feel it radiating off her in waves. It calls to me, tempts me to reach out and press my fingers into her flesh.

My pulse kicks up, a slow, ark thrill twisting inside me. She has no idea I’m here. She doesn’t know a monster is right beside her. My gaze flicks to the bedside table, catching on the small bottle next to my note. My fingers close around it, lifting it into the faint light. I turn it in my palm, my eyes dragging over the label.

Sleeping meds.

Oh, little corpse. My silly, silly little fucking corpse. What the fuck have you done?

My jaw ticks as my focus snaps back to her. She’s out cold. She must have been so fucking unsettled that she drugged herself just to escape it. Just to escape me.

But the worse thing? I now know just how easy it would be to take full advantage of this moment. No fight. No fear. Just her lifeless body to fuck. The thought sinks deep and my hand tightens around the bottle before I force myself to set it back down.

Instead, I reach for her, the back of my cold fingers skimming her cheek and trailing down the side of her face.

Nothing. No shiver, no flinch. Just a deep, drug-induced sleep. Her skin is soft, just like I thought it would be. A stark contrast to the filth on my own hands, the things I’ve done and the people I’ve destroyed.

Slowly, I brush her hair away, clearing it from her closed eyes and her long, dark lashes fan over her cheeks. My mind is a fucking battlefield. She’s beyond beautiful, a waste of death. So delicate and mine. I can already tell she’s going to be a test of everything I’ve ever known.

She doesn’t know how fucking lucky she is that I’m the kind of sicko who only gets pleasure from the dead, and I’m not here to do that tonight. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to leave my mark and play twisted games with her before I see her again.

I withdraw, slowly rising, my body tight with restraint. My blade disappears into my jeans, replaced with something less deadly, but just as permanent. My marker and lifeline where my words fail.

My leather jacket, soaked and heavy, slides from my arms and crashes to the floor like dead weight. My pulse pounds while carefully climbing onto the bottom of the bed, my face low as I crawl up her frame like a shadow stretching in candlelight.

I hover so close, rain drips from the wavy strands of my hair onto her pale skin. My gaze hungrily drags over her shape beneath the sheet that barely hides her. She’s small compared to me. So fragile. And fuck, I could break her so easily. I wonna tear her tiny cunt apart.

I brace my weight on one arm, the other bringing the marker to my teeth and bite the cap off. Then, with slow, deliberate strokes, I press the ink to her skin. My backward words stain her in thick, black script, carving words into her body without ever breaking the flesh.

After the final stroke, I click the cap back on and shove it into my jeans. My cock is now heavy and pulsing, grinding against the soft swell of her ass every time I move, causing an unbearable ache.

A low growl rips from my chest, dark and animalistic in my throat as my dark gaze devours her all over again.

I have to leave. Now. Before I lose my shit entirely.

Lowing my face, I press my forehead against the side of hers, closing my eyes, relishing in her one last time. Then, gripping my last remains of my self-control, I leap off the bed. As soon as my boots land on the floor, I scoop my jacket up and head for the door.

Pausing at the threshold, I glance back at her, realizing she’s the first to ever live. For now. I blink blankly for a second, questioning my entire existence, an unusual feeling settling in my stomach as I return my eyes to the dark hallway ahead and leave.