Wrath doesn’t even look at me, his face a mask of indifference and he lifts two fingers, sticky with the blood, and presses them to the wall, starting to write slowly.
I am the law.
My brows pinch as he stands calmly, staring down at his murdered victim. He gathers spit on his tongue before letting it trail off, the glob landing with a disgusting plop on the man’s face. I stare with wide eyes, realizing he just left his DNA on him.
What the fuck? Is he really that untouchable?
Wrath’s eyes flash to mine before he tilts his chin toward the keys. I inhale deeply, shoving my shaky hands into my pockets and make my way to the back.
After finding the key and locker, Wrath stands behind me like a looming shadow the entire time, making my skin prickle with unease. I jam the key into the lock and twist. The door creaks open, and there it is—my bag. The one I haven’t seen in so long.
A relived breath escapes me, shoulders loosening just a little, but I can still feel him. Watching and waiting. I don’t need his voice to know—he’s trying to figure me out. What does she need so badly? What the fuck’s in the bag?
“It’s none of your business,” I mutter, yanking the bag out like I’m answering a question he didn’t even ask but definitely thought.
I sling it over my shoulder, slam the locker shut, and turn to face him. My gaze drags up his length until it meets his.
“But thanks for the ride, Wrath.” I add with a flutter of my lashes, poking at the hornet’s nest just because I can.
As soon as I try to pass him, his hand flies out fast, slamming me back against the locker with his grip around my throat, knocking the air out of me. Breathing heavily, his mouth dips close to mine, teeth bared in a growl and it’s a clear warning:stop testing me.
I roll my eyes and glance aside, jaw tight. I can’t help it. I’m a raging little bitch right now with a sharp tongue and an even sharper attitude, and if he wants me as much as he thinks he does, he’s just gonna have to deal with it.
After releasing me, he walks off, leaving me to trail behind him.
By the time we pull up to Oddity, the place is silent, swallowed in darkness. Wrath kills the engine but doesn’t move and I slide off the bike, boots hitting the gravel before glancing at him.
I hesitate, then step closer, the weight of his eyes pressing into me. He doesn’t try anything. So I act before he can demand.
I lean in, lips brushing his painted cheek in a soft, fleeting kiss. He visibly tenses, just slightly, but doesn’t pull away as I linger for a breath, then draw back slow, the tension thick between us.
“Thank you,” I whisper as our eyes lock again. “And that’s all you’re going to get,” I say, the hint of a smirk curling at my lips as I step away, pulse still racing.
His brow lifts like he’s already calling bullshit, then I slip the bag off my shoulder and dig for the pen, fingers brushing past everything until I find it.
I uncap it and start writing on my palm, quick and steady, his gaze never leaving my hands. Once it’s done, I hold it up without a word.
Last night, you missed my scars?
I ask him the question I’ve been holding back, the one I didn’t want to say out loud, but needed to ask. And somehow, putting it down in writing, letting the ink slip across my palm, feels easier—safer.
I realise I’m learning something about him, something about me, even if only for this moment. It’s more unsettling than I thought it would be, but it gives me an understanding of why he never speaks.
Words are sharp, they can split things open and rot when they’re exposed to air. And maybe he’s learned the hard way, like I have, that silence is sometimes better.
It’s less exposed, less raw. I don’t want to feel vulnerable, not yet, not with him. But in this quiet and in this twisted dance we’re doing, it almost feels right.
His red glowing eyes lock with mine the moment he reads the words, his jaw tensing. For a long second, he stares at me, searching my face like he’s trying to figure me out.
Then, he sits back, slips his hand into his pocket, and pulls out a small piece of paper. I watch intensely as he writes something down quickly, and it seems to be a lot before folding it into a small square.
He offers it to me perched between his tattooed fingers, the paper tauntingly just out of reach. I stretch for it, but before I can make contact, he pulls it back a fraction and gives a head gesture for me to leave after.
A frustrated breath escapes me, but he doesn’t have to ask twice, I snatch the paper, shooting him one last look, then turn, heading toward my trailer.
As I get to the door, I gently begin to peel open his piece of paper with eager hands, wanting to see what he said.
I did it to let you know, I didn’t just see your perfect naked body or an empty canvas waiting to be filled. I saw every fractured part of you—every scar and wound you tried to bury. I saw the darkness you carry, and it was fucking beautiful.