“I don’t usually tell people that before they see it.”
“So why tell me?”
“I wanted to see your reaction.”
I raise my chin, studying her.
“And what did you see?”
“Nothing,” she states, brows lifting slightly. “You’re not surprised, Aurelia?”
My head tilts, then I shake it slowly.
“Why would I be surprised? I’ve been in The Dismembered Den and the Tunnel of Blood. And I know that ain’t fake blood smothered over everything.” I say, voice low. “I’ve met Wrath... far more than once.”
Her brows rise, almost all the way to her hairline.
“And you’re not running for your life? You still want to stay?”
Silence stretches between us, her question hanging by a thread. I don’t rush on answering, I let it settle before finally responding.
“I’m not running for my life. And yeah... I still want to stay.”
She stares at me, studying every inch of my face like she’s trying to read the truth behind my skin. Then she nods, slow and approving.
“Finally,” she murmurs, lips grinning. “The right answer.”
When I sense the conversation’s over, I give her a small nod, just enough to be polite, then turn and get the fuck out.
Exiting the circus, I glance at The Hollows trailer, Wrath’s bike parked out front, black and red swirls bleeding into chrome, and without thinking, I start to drift toward it. I head straight for the door, the handle giving under my hand before I slip inside.
Silence greets me as usual, but I don’t stop, already moving toward his bedroom like I’ve got no choice in the matter, like something’s pulling me.
When I reach his door, I don’t bother knocking, I just open it and spot him instantly, shirtless, hunched slightly in the chair at his desk, back to me. His eyes shift just enough to catch mine before he stands abruptly, too fast, like I’ve caught him mid-sin.
My brow furrows as I step inside, eying him suspiciously and close the door behind me, dropping my bag on the floor, but he won’t turn around.
Then I see the blood. Thin, dark lines trailing down onto the floor, dripping from somewhere I can’t see.
“Wrath,” I gasp quietly.
My stomach tightens and I step forward, instinct kicking in, but his arm shoots out, blocking me before I can get too close.
I wait, confused, until he finally turns. That’s when I see it—his hand is the source, his fist clenched tight and bleeding hard, fingers curled around something he refuses to let go of, his knuckles straining bone-white.
He steps toward me carefully, eyes locked on mine, red and swirling. The closer he gets, the more everything else seems to fade, until he stops right in front of me, his heat wrapping around me, his shadow swallowing me whole.
He gently uncurls his fingers, one by one, and my eyes drop to it, my breath catching. Resting in his palm is a silver necklace, warped and twisted from what looks like barbed wire, each one jagged and sharp, spellingLittleCorpsein cruel, connected letters.
A chain connects to each end of the words with a clasp, glinting dully under the dim red light. The whole thing looks like a distorted, macabre piece of art, so painfully beautiful.
But what stops me breathing entirely is what’s behind it. Carved deep into his skin, the wordsBe Mine 4 Ever, letters raw and uneven, are etched into his flesh like a brand.
My eyes flick to the tips of his fingers, sore and shredded, and it’s clear now, he made it with his bare hands, each slice, each rip, a part of him he’s left in this… gift.
I can barely think straight. I can’t tell if I should scream or fucking collapse. The horror of his pain and the beauty of what he’s made for me, collide so hard I can’t stop the sting in my eyes.
I want to say something, to react, but the only thing I can feel is that choking knot in my throat.