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.
