Yes. I just trauma-dumped them. Three serial killers with—clearly—their own baggage.
But for whatever reason, there’s no stopper on my thoughts. They just spill and spill and spill between us.
“I don't want to exist anymore,” I continue. “There's nothing left for me here. I'm done.”
“Little Grim,” Talon murmurs, stepping forward. But I can’t even look at him. My own skull is in his hands, and that’s too jarring for me to process right now. I turn my head away, silently willing myself to cease.
They think they can control me? Well, they can't control my blinking.
Except—oh, wait. They totally can.
Talon whispers into my skull again, and just like before, I get yanked right back into place.
Nathaniel tilts his head, amused. “We can’t stop you from trying to disappear,” he says. “But we can make you come back.”
I clench my jaw.
Oh, it’s war.
Fine. They wanna play this game? I’ll just keep disappearing. Over and over.
I blink out again.
And again.
And—
The next time they yank me back, it’s harder. Rougher. Like they're getting annoyed. Good. But before I can savor my tiny victory, Talon does something that makes my brain short-circuit.
His hand touches my wrist.
Not physically—not exactly. But it’s deep, like an impression pressed into my very being. More than before. More than I’ve felt in years.
I freeze.
The sensation is impossible—too real, too solid. Not like someone grasping air, but like he’s actually holding me.
My breath stutters. My eyes snap to his.
He smirks, mismatched eyes flickering with something hot and amused. “Gotcha.”
I try to jerk back. Blink out. Do anything. But his grip tightens—not physically, but through whatever magic or bullshit dominance trick they’ve worked into my skull.
“You should just stay in the living plane with us, Little Grim,” he purrs. “We don't give up that easily.”
His voice dips lower, rich with something that should not be doing things to me.
A shiver skates down my spine.
Talon leans in, close enough that I can almost feel him, his breath a whisper against my non-corporeal skin.
“But perhaps,” he murmurs, “we could find a different way to convince you?”
I hate everything. And worse? I hate that I want to know what he means.
Why do I feel alive again?
I was weightless before. Untouchable. A shadow caught between the realms. But now—now heat pulses against my wrist, sinking beneath whatever it is that makes up a Grim Reaper’s body.
