“Oh, little fairy,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath hot, his eyes wild. “You still don’t understand. Death is too small for what we are. The only ending you’ll get is ruin. And I’ll make sure it’s ours.”
The photographs rustle in the draft, whispering like ghosts. His hook presses harder, just enough to sting, just enough to promise.
And the cage closes tighter, wider, endless.
The hook presses harder under my chin. My pulse hammers against it, hot, wild, daring him to slice. His breath sears mymouth, his forehead crushing into mine, and for one jagged heartbeat the air is still.
Then I move.
I slam my knee up into his ribs, sharp, desperate. The impact rips a grunt from his throat, but his grip doesn’t loosen. He snarls, hook scraping my skin as I twist, my nails raking down his face until blood beads under my claws.
“Fight,” he growls, shoving me back into the wall of photographs. Frames crack, glass shatters, my own images raining down around me. “Show me you’re still alive.”
I swing a fist, wild, cracking against his jaw. Pain jolts up my arm, but the sight of his lip splitting is worth it. He smiles through blood, feral, eyes lit with madness.
“Good girl.”
He lunges. The hook slams into the wall beside my head, missing by inches, embedding in the wood. I duck under his arm, shove hard, sending him staggering into the shrine of me. Pictures rip under his weight, my life crumpling with him.
My hands find a shard of glass on the floor. I grip it tight, slicing my palm, but I don’t care. I raise it, screaming, and slash across his chest. The shard bites, blood blooming bright against his shirt.
He laughs—laughs—even as blood drips. His hand shoots out, catching my wrist, twisting until the shard falls. It shatters on the floor, useless.
“You want to kill me?” he rasps, dragging me close, his blood smearing against my skin. “You’ll have to love me first.”
I spit in his face, screaming wordless rage, shoving against him with everything I have. For a second—just a second—I think I’ve won.
Then he slams me down onto the floor, glass digging into my back, photographs sticking to my skin, the hook glinting above us both.
And the shrine burns with our ruin.
The world narrows to glass and blood. His weight crushes me into the floor, shards cutting deep into my back, photographs plastered to my skin with sweat. Every breath is a scream. Every movement tears me open.
I twist, clawing, my nails raking down his throat, leaving jagged trails of red. He snarls, grabs my wrists, slams them above my head. My body arches, desperate for air, but all I get is his mouth crashing down on mine, hot and metallic, his blood mixing with mine.
I bite. Hard.
Copper floods my tongue. He jerks back, blood dripping from his lip, but his smile is wild, broken, unhinged.
“Bleed with me,” he growls, and drives the hook into the floor beside my head. The wood splinters. My scream rips through the hall.
I buck against him, shards embedding deeper into my spine, slick heat dripping down my thighs. My hand finds another shard, small, sharp, and I drag it across his arm. Blood spills fast, splattering my chest, painting me in him.
We’re both slick now—him on me, me on him, the shrine a battlefield painted red.
He grabs my chin, forces me to look at him through the haze. His eyes blaze with hunger and hate and something worse—worship.
“This is it,” he pants, his blood dripping onto my lips, sliding down my throat. “This is love, little fairy. Not words. Not vows. Blood.”
His chest heaves. My body trembles. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might split open.
And I realise—he’s right.
This isn’t freedom. This isn’t survival.
This is ruin. Ours.
When he finally collapses against me, hook clattering against the floor, both of us shaking, the hall is drenched in us. Our blood smeared on the walls. My face torn from a frame, his shirt shredded to ribbons.
