It’s just another dirty pile mess I don’t need on my plate right now.
I growl, shoving the phone back into my pocket with a vicious motion, feeling agitated more than usual. It’s probably because I need to drain my balls, deep inside my little corpse.
When I step into the room, Madame is seated behind her desk and the moment her eyes lift, landing on me, she double takes like she’s seeing a ghost walk past the curtain.
Her surprise is obvious. It’s carved into the subtle widening of her dark eyes. She knows I don’t show up unless I’m dragging something heavy behind me.
Unlike Hell and Soul, I’m the one who keeps to the dark. The one who speaks through violence or silence. I might respect her, I might even see her as blood in a world where that means nothing, but I don’t come knocking without reason.
“Wrath,” she exhales my name as I stop dead center in the room.
My fingers twitch, clenching once, then slowly unfurling, the only thing I’ll give. She notices, then gestures to the worn chair in front of her desk.
I lower myself into the seat, the wood groaning beneath my weight and she mirrors me, sinking back into hers, but her eyes don’t leave me as she slides an old, scorched piece of parchment paper and a quill toward me.
I lean in, scribble across it in sharp, impatient strokes, then turn it around for her to read.
I fuck dead women.
Madame reads it, her eyes moving slowly over my messy scrawl and when she looks up, there’s no surprise on her face.
“I know, Wrath,” she says flatly. “You’ve been here since you were a child. People talk.”
I look away for a second, jaw tight before I continue
I can’t seem to stop it. And I think it’s from my nightmares. It’s connected to something.
Her interest sharpens, and this time, her gaze snaps to mine, but there’s no fear in her, just a curiosity in the weight of what I just told her.
She leans back slowly, folding her hands in her lap. “Tell me more,” she murmurs, her tone calm and coaxing, “and take your time.”
I explain the nightmares, what I saw in the most recent one, how it was Aurelia, andwhen I’m finished, she leans in without hesitation, scanning every jagged word I’ve carved into the paper.
Her dark eyes flick up to mine afterward, and there’s something sharper in them now, it’s as if she’s not just seeing me, but what’s beneath me too.
“It feels like a warning,” she mutters, voice low with suspicion.
She pauses, visibly uneasy and her fingers drum the desk once before she clears her throat, and suddenly she looks less like Madame, and more like someone who’s known me since I was too small to fight back.
“Have you…” she hesitates, her voice lower now, wary. “Been fully intimate with Aurelia yet?”
I shake my head once, then pick up the pen and scribble.
I’ve nearly killed her twice while having fun. But I haven’t fucked her pussy yet.
Her brows lift, and she takes a hard swallow, clearly unsettled by what I’ve just admitted.
“So, you’re fighting your impulses?” she asks.
I nod once and for a second, she just watches me, trying to read something.
“Although you carry a heavy darkness, Wrath, probably the darkest at Oddity, naturally,” she finally murmurs, standing and drifting toward her shelves of old stones and relics, “there’s nothing that screams danger… not yet.”
She trails her fingers over the edge of a crystal. “But… something could be masking it. If it’s spiritual. If it’s old. If it’s dark or if it’s waiting.”
Her hand hovers over them before she plucks one from the shelf.
“Or this could be trauma... Deep-rooted trauma.”