I press the handle down with my wrist and walk in, closing the door behind me, not that it’ll actually lock. I head straight for the kitchen, trying to focus, trying to pretend like I’m alone.
But the door creaks open and I roll my eyes.
Of course.
He closes the gap between us from behind and my body goes tight, shoulders curling in as I grab some paper towels.
The pain hits hard, sharp, and I drop them with a groan.
“Here, let me…” he says softly behind me.
“No,” I growl, pushing past the pain and grabbing them myself. “I don’t need your help.”
“Little corpse,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to soften it, like it’s still some twisted term of flattery.
“Don’t call me that,” I hiss, turning but refusing to meet his eyes. “Ever again.”
I move past him, and he lets me, just standing there, silent, unmoving, like a shadow frozen in place.
I reach the bathroom, shove the door closed behind me, and twist the lock. My back presses against it as I squeeze my eyes shut. The tears come fast, hot and furious, but I choke them back, jaw clenched, lungs burning.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I drag myself toward the sink, gripping the edge with trembling hands, forcing myself to look in the mirror.
I barely recognize what’s staring back at me.
After the shower, after scrubbing every last trace of him off me, after cleaning and bandaging every burning wound, I wrap a towel around myself and step out of the bathroom.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
My eyes scan the room, pulse ticking. When I walk into the bedroom, my breath catches in my throat. The chains are still there—bolted to the ceiling, dangling, unmoved. Notes still taped to them like cruel trophies.
My stomach twists into knots. Fury and grief wrap around each other like barbed wire.
Then I see him.
Wrath is sitting at the edge of the bed, head in his hands like he’s been there the whole time. Waiting. Silently stewing in his own fucked-up headspace.
I don’t say a word. I just take a breath and head for the wardrobe, needing to get dressed, needing something normal—anything.
But I feel his eyes lift to me.
“Can I get some privacy?” I mutter, dragging a loose shirt off a hanger.
“Privacy?” he snorts, lifting his head fully now. “Allure, I’ve seen the inside of your asshole. What the fuck do you mean, privacy?”
I roll my eyes at his disgusting, tactless response and drag the oversized shirt over my head, letting it fall down my body.
When it’s covering enough, I yank the towel off and let it hit the floor with a wet thud.
“Can you leave then?” I mutter, grabbing some sweats.
“No,” he growls, final.
I spin around, eyes narrowing. “Well, I don’t want you here.”
He shrugs once, that same infuriating calm. “Doesn’t change shit.”
