He bares his teeth in a grin, sharp and dangerous. “And you’re still standing here, dripping on my floor. So go put the clothes on before I change my mind and take them back.”
My fists curl at my sides. “You could have just left me there,” I snap.
“I should have.” Thorne replies, his voice hard like stone. “It would have saved me the headache.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He steps closer, towering over me. “Because whatever shitstorm you’ve dragged into my world, is now my problem. Don’t mistake necessity for compassion.”
I scoff. “You don’t know the first thing about compassion.”
His lips curl. “You don’t know when to shut up.”
We stand there, the silence between us sharp. Finally, he jerks his chin at the pile of clothes. “Put them on. You look pathetic like this.”
My cheeks burn, still, I don’t give him the satisfaction of replying. Instead, I flick my hand in a sharp gesture, silentlytelling him to get out. His eyes narrow, as though he’s about to bite back, but after a long moment, he turns and stalks away. I wait, listening, until the sound of his heavy steps fades down the hall. Crossing the room to the chair, I sift through the clothes. At first, I expect some strange unwearable items, but when my hand lands on a familiar fabric, my breath stutters. They are my clothes… from home.
With trembling hands, I tug on some black leggings and a sweatshirt, along with some black fluffy socks. Each piece feels heavier than the last, as if it carries the weight of his intrusion. The fabric that once meant comfort now feels tainted.
By the time Thorne returns, I’m standing in the middle of the room, with my arms crossed, and my jaw tight.
“You’ve been in my house,” I snap, venom sharp in my voice. “You went through my things.”
He doesn’t flinch. His gaze sweeps over me, unreadable, as if I’m some puzzle he’s already half solved. “I brought you what you needed, didn’t I?”
“That’s not the point!” My voice cracks with fury. “You don’t get to touch my life, not like that.”
He doesn’t answer me at first. The silence stretches, as though he’s enjoying the weight of it pressing down on me. When his voice finally comes, it’s not the reply I want.
“I’m going to find Saoirse,” he says flatly, shifting his gaze away as if I’m no longer worth his attention. “I need to figure out what she’s done with your lover boy. What did you call him… Braiden.”
The sound of Braiden’s name splinters something deep in my chest, raw and jagged. My throat tightens, the air around me suddenly becomes too thin.
“You, wait here,” he adds, turning toward the door, his tone more a command than a request. “Don’t leave.”
“Don’t tell me to just wait here like some helpless child,” I snap, stepping toward him. My voice shakes. “You don’t get to lock me away while you play hero.”
He doesn’t even blink. “You’ll wait,” he says coldly. “You won’t leave.”
I open my mouth to fire back, however Braiden’s name echoes in my head again.
The moment I can no longer hear Thorne’s steps echo, my anger explodes. Every muscle in my body coils, and I stomp across the room, my fists clenching so hard my nails dig into my palms.
“How dare he!” I roar, my voice bouncing off the walls. “I’m not some fragile thing to be locked up!”
The fury inside me is no longer just anger, it’s something darker. My hands shake, not from fear, but from the sheer power coilingbeneath my skin, clawing to get out. Shadows in the corners of the room twist and pulse as if they’re alive, drawn to the storm I’m unleashing. I can feel it, the raw energy of rage sharpening my senses. The air itself seems to recoil as I pace, my fists still tight. My lips curl back in a snarl, and a low, guttural growl slips out before I can stop it.
Braiden’s name burns on my tongue, a spark feeding this inferno. I don’t just want him back, I want to make whoever put him in danger pay. The walls hum with the pressure of my power, the darkness reaching toward me as though they recognize their master, ready to obey.
If it kills me, I will hunt down every last human or monster, even if only one hair on his head is harmed.
Réabfaidh mé an dá shaol óna chéile le go mbeidh siad ag fulaingt.(I will tear both worlds apart to make them suffer.)
Some kind of luck must be on my side because I’ve found a way to leech the banshee’s power from that trembling human, to drain her essence until there’s nothing left but a hollow shell.
They call it a scream cage. But, names never capture the truth of a thing. It isn’t just metal and bone. It breathes and listens. A frame of blackened ribs twisted with iron, slick with old blood and carved through with runes so sharp they cut the air itself. Inside, the bars don’t rattle, they thrum, like a harp strung with invisible strings. Except the strings are the banshee's voice, bound tight, stretched until it nearly snaps.
The beauty of it is simple, every time she opens her mouth, her scream doesn’t escape. It tears from her throat, only to curl back on itself, trapped, ringing repeatedly until the cage drinks it down. The sound doesn’t vanish, it coils in the bones. Then transfers into me. She’ll be feeding me every time she cries out. Her power, siphoned, scream by scream. The cage keeps heralive just enough, dangling her between silence and oblivion. While I gorge myself on what was meant to be her gift. It’s not a prison, It’s a harvest.
