A D E L I N E

I couldn’t breathe.

The air in my apartment had changed—thicker, heavier, suffocating. It felt tainted, as if his presence still lingered, curling around me like invisible smoke.

My chest heaved, rising and falling in frantic, shallow gasps, but no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t pull in enough air. My lungs burned, my throat tight, as if his phantom touch was still wrapped around my neck, squeezing, controlling, reminding me that he had been here.

My fingers trembled as I gripped the edge of the nightstand, my nails digging into the polished wood so hard it sent sharp pains up my fingertips. Good. I needed it. I needed something real, something tangible to ground me. Otherwise, I might lose myself to the terror clawing through me, threatening to consume me whole.

He was here.

A violent shudder wrecked through my body, my skin burning with the memory of his touch. Every nerve, every cell still carried the imprint of his fingers, his heat, his breath against my ear. I could still hear the deep, smooth timbre of his voice, whispering in the dark like a lover, speaking words that didn’t belong in this reality.

My stomach twisted, nausea rising fast and relentless.

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, as if I could shake him out, force him from my thoughts, erase the way my body still responded to him with fear and something else I didn’t want to name. But he was everywhere—in the walls, in the silence, in the very air I breathed.

I forced myself to inhale, but the scent of him still clung to my skin, a mixture of something dark, expensive, and utterly masculine. It made me sick. It made my pulse stutter in confusion. It made my stomach knot because I didn’t understand how I could be this terrified and yet still feel the lingering warmth where his body had pressed against mine.

I pressed a shaking hand against my mouth, trying to suppress the whimper threatening to escape.

What do I do?

The question hit me like a wrecking ball, breaking through the stunned silence of my mind. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out any coherent thoughts. Call someone? Scream? But who would I call? The police? And say what?

That a man had broken into my apartment? That he had touched me? That he had whispered threats against my skin like a lover's promise before vanishing into the night?

My fingers curled around my arms, hugging myself tightly, desperate for warmth. But it wasn’t the cold that had settled inside me. It was something worse—something deeper.

It was him.

A broken breath shuddered out of me, but it did nothing to still the trembling in my limbs. My body screamed at me to move, to run, to do something, but my feet stayed glued to the floor, my brain unable to process the simple command to flee.

I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. Get up. Breathe. Move.

The command repeated in my head, over and over, until I forced myself to push off the nightstand. My legs were weak, my knees barely holding me up, but I refused to collapse. I had to keep myself together.

For my sanity.

For the sake of proving to myself that I wasn’t breaking.

A sharp exhale left me as I ran a shaky hand through my hair, my fingers tangling in the strands as I tried to ground myself. I needed to do something. Check the doors. Make sure they’re locked. Splash cold water on my face. Anything.

Anything—

My breath hitched.

My gaze landed on my bed.

And there, resting on my pillow as if it belonged there, was a single red rose.

Fresh. Deep crimson. The petals soft and flawless, untouched by time or imperfection.

My heart clenched in my chest, a sickening pulse of fear and rage twisting together so tightly I couldn’t tell which was stronger.

Next to the rose lay a folded note.

My pulse spiked so hard the room tilted.

That asshole.

Of course, he would leave something behind.

I could feel my blood rushing through my veins, my skin tingling with adrenaline and fury. My stomach twisted in anger, but beneath it, fear lurked, sharp and suffocating.

A sharp breath left me, but my feet wouldn’t move. I stood frozen, staring at the note like it was a bomb waiting to detonate.

I didn’t want to read it.

I already knew it wouldn’t be anything good.

But my traitorous fingers still reached for it.

The paper felt smooth beneath my touch, the folds crisp, the ink dark against the pale sheet. My breath felt trapped in my lungs as I unfolded it, my eyes scanning the words, my mind barely processing them before they slammed into me with the force of a bullet.

"Consider this mercy, little writer. Next time, you won’t get off so easily. Touch another man again, and I’ll make you wish you fucking hadn’t."



The walls closed in.

I dropped the note as if it had burned me, my fingers shaking so hard they felt numb.

My heart pounded, slamming against my ribs in erratic beats, my vision blurring as icy dread settled deep into my bones.

This wasn’t just a warning.

It was a promise.

🌹🌹🌹

Z A D E

The room reeked of blood, sweat, and piss—thick and suffocating, clinging to the air like decay itself had taken residence here. The dim light buzzed overhead, flickering, barely illuminating the grotesque display before me.

Arch hung from the chains, his arms stretched above his head, his body trembling with the aftermath of pain. His designer shirt was nothing but shredded fabric, clinging to his sweat-drenched skin in strips, soaked in blood—his own. Bruises blossomed across his torso, ugly and swollen, a grotesque rainbow of agony painted across his flesh.

Yet still—his fucking mouth kept running.

“Y-You’re—” His voice was wrecked, raw, but the arrogance in his words still bled through. “You’re fucking dead, you hear me?” A wet cough racked through his body, splattering blood onto his chin. “My dad—h-he will fucking kill you! You think you can—”

CRACK.

The handle of my knife slammed against his jaw, shattering his front teeth with the satisfying sound of splintering bone. The crunch sent a thrill down my spine, a dark smile tugging at my lips as he howled in agony.

Blood gushed from his ruined mouth, dribbling down his chin in thick, crimson streaks. His breathing came in harsh, wet gasps, his body convulsing in pain. He spat something onto the concrete floor. A piece of his tooth, jagged and slick with red.

I tilted my head, watching him with amusement. “What was that, Arch? Your dad’s gonna kill me?” I let out a low, mocking chuckle. “Tell me, how exactly is he gonna do that when you’ll be sent back to him in fucking pieces?”

His bloodshot eyes flickered with panic. Good.

I stepped closer, my knife glinting under the dim light as I dragged the tip across his trembling fingers—the same fingers that had dared to touch her. His right hand. That’s where I’d start.

“You touched what doesn’t belong to you,” I murmured, tracing the blade along his knuckles, feeling the way he flinched beneath the pressure. “Did you enjoy it?”

Arch made a strangled sound, something between a sob and a plea. His lips quivered, his pupils blown wide with terror.

I gripped his middle finger. The one he used to pleasure her.

“This one?” I tapped the blade against the knuckle. “Or maybe…” I pressed harder against his ring finger.

He whimpered.

I smiled. “No answer?” My grip tightened, my patience slipping. “Let me help you decide.”

And then—I brought the knife down.

A sharp, wet slice.

His scream ripped through the room, raw and animalistic, as his middle finger was severed clean from his hand. Blood spurted in thick, crimson streams, splattering across the floor, painting his chest in bright red.

Arch thrashed in the chains, his body convulsing violently as agony overtook him. His entire frame shook, his breath hitching in frantic sobs.

I crouched, picking up the severed finger between my thumb and forefinger, holding it up to his face like a fucking trophy.

“Still wanna talk about Daddy?” I taunted, twirling the bloodied digit between my fingers. “Maybe I should send this to him? Let him know what’s left of his worthless fucking son?”

Arch’s sobs came in choked, broken gasps. But I wasn’t done.

I turned my attention to his ring finger.

This time, I didn’t make it quick.

I started at the tip—slowly, deliberately peeling back the skin with my blade, inch by inch.

The sound of flesh tearing filled the room, wet and sickening. The muscle beneath was raw, exposed, twitching in protest as I carved through the nerves.

Arch screamed like an animal being gutted alive. His body twisted against the chains, his face contorted in sheer, mind-numbing agony.

But I didn’t stop.

I kept slicing, layer by layer, down to the knuckle.

When I reached the bone, I twisted.

Cartilage snapped. Tendons ripped apart. The bone cracked under the pressure.

Arch let out a sound I’d never heard before—a choked, desperate noise, like he was drowning in his own agony.

And then—his ring finger tore free.

Blood poured like a waterfall, drenching the floor beneath him in deep, sticky pools. His entire body convulsed violently, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

I let the finger drop onto his lap, watching it roll across the fabric of his ruined pants.

“Not so fucking cocky now, are you?” I sneered, grabbing his face, forcing him to meet my gaze.

His swollen eyes fluttered, his lips trembling. His mind was breaking.

But I wasn’t finished yet.

I moved to his left hand.

Arch sobbed, his body writhing in sheer terror. His lips parted, desperate, forming a silent plea.

I grinned.

Snap.

I clamped the pliers onto his pinky finger, twisting.

The bone snapped like a twig.

His scream was pure fucking music.

I twisted harder, slower, dragging it out, until the bone shattered completely, leaving his finger dangling at an unnatural angle.

Then—I gripped the ring finger.

And I ripped.

Tendons snapped. Flesh tore. Muscle separated.

Arch shrieked, his voice cracking into nothing but a garbled, inhuman wail as I ripped his finger straight from the socket. Blood poured from the gaping wound, soaking the floor, pooling beneath him in thick, syrupy streams.

His body spasmed—violent, uncontrollable. His breath hitched, each inhale weaker, more desperate.

He was slipping.

I grabbed his jaw, yanking his head back.

“Not done yet.” My voice was soft, almost gentle.

His bloodshot, tear-filled eyes met mine, and for the first time—he looked truly broken.

Perfect.

I pulled out my knife.

And aimed it at his tongue.

Arch tried to jerk away, his entire body trembling in dread.

“You called her beautiful, didn’t you?”

His breath hitched.

I smirked. “Yeah, you told her she was the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. Flattered her with your fucking words.”

I shoved the blade past his ruined lips.

“Bite down, and I’ll carve your fucking jaw off.”

He froze. Terror rooted him in place.

With one brutal motion, I sliced across his tongue.

Blood exploded from his mouth, gushing in thick, pulsing waves, drenching his chin, his neck, his chest.

Arch’s screams became nothing but wet, garbled gurgles. His body convulsed, choking, drowning in his own blood.

I gripped the half-severed tongue. It twitched in my grasp.

And then—I cut it out completely.

A thick, wet plop as it hit the floor.

Arch gurgled, his throat spasming. His eyes rolled back. His body jerked violently, then stilled.

Arch was barely conscious now, his body sagging against the chains, trembling in the aftermath of pain. His breath came in short, gurgling gasps, struggling against the blood pooling in his throat. His ruined mouth parted in silent sobs, the stump where his tongue once was twitching uselessly.

But I wasn’t done.

Not yet.

I crouched before him, tilting my head as I studied the mess I had made. Blood streaked his skin, smeared across his chest, his arms, his face. A masterpiece of agony. A slow, violent destruction of the man who dared to touch what was mine.

But his eyes—they were still whole.

That wouldn’t do.

I reached into my pocket, retrieving the small, curved blade I had specifically chosen for this moment. It glinted under the flickering light, wicked and sharp, made for precision.

Arch’s breath hitched as I grabbed a fistful of his sweat-drenched hair, yanking his head up so he had no choice but to look at me. His pupils were blown wide, glassy with pain and the stark realization of what was coming next.

He knew.

A shuddering sob wracked through him, his lips trembling as he tried to shake his head, to plead. But words failed him. His ruined mouth could do nothing but gurgle and whimper, his tongue nothing but a severed memory.

Perfect.

I pressed the tip of the blade beneath his left eye, just below the lower lid, letting the sharp metal bite into the sensitive flesh. Arch convulsed, his body straining against the chains, but I tightened my grip, holding him still.

“Eyes are dangerous, Arch,” I murmured, dragging the blade ever so slightly, watching as his breath hitched in terror. “They make you believe things that aren’t yours belong to you.”

I pressed harder, slicing through the thin skin with ease. A single droplet of blood welled at the corner of his eye, trailing down his cheek like a crimson tear.

He sobbed, the sound barely human.

I grinned. “So, let’s fix that, yeah?”

And then—I carved.

The scream that tore from Arch’s throat was nothing short of pure, unfiltered agony. His entire body thrashed, convulsing as I dug the blade deeper, twisting, severing the delicate tissue that held his eye in place.

The wet squelch of flesh giving way was almost drowned out by his howls. Almost.

Blood poured freely, streaming down his face in thick, dark rivulets, staining the collar of his shredded shirt. I worked carefully, methodically, until the eye hung loosely from its socket, still tethered by the optic nerve.

I took my time slicing through it.

A final snap, a sickening pop—

And his eye came free.

Arch’s body seized violently, his breath hitching in erratic, broken sobs. His remaining eye darted wildly, unfocused, drowning in terror and incomprehensible pain.

I held the severed orb between my fingers, turning it slightly, watching as the dim light reflected off the glossy surface. A pathetic, bloodied little thing.

I leaned in close, just enough for him to feel my breath against his mangled face.

“One down.” I whispered, letting the words sink in. “Shall we go for the other?”

A shudder ran through him—a desperate, primal tremor of sheer fucking horror.

He knew he wouldn’t survive this.

And that was the best part.

But he was still breathing.

Unacceptable.

I stepped back, rolling my shoulders, feeling the tension settle into something more primal. The thrill of the kill. The slow, inevitable climax to the suffering I had inflicted.

His chest heaved with labored breaths, each inhale a struggle. He was begging for death now, even if he couldn’t say it.

I wasn’t going to deny him.

I crouched beside him, gripping his hair again, yanking his head up so he could see me through the haze of blood and pain. His lips parted, a choked sound escaping—something between a sob and a wheeze.

"Hurts, doesn’t it?" I whispered, my voice smooth, calm. "Like knives twisting under your skin. Like fire licking at your bones. Like drowning in your own fucking blood."

Arch’s body shuddered violently, another broken sob escaping.

I smiled. "Good."

I released his hair, letting his head slump forward. His body sagged against the chains, too weak to even hold himself up anymore. He was on the edge—teetering between life and death, dangling in that perfect moment of suffering.

Time to push him over.

I withdrew my gun, the black metal gleaming under the dim light. The weight of it was familiar, comfortable in my hand.

Arch's breath hitched as I pressed the barrel against his temple, the cold metal biting into his blood-drenched skin. His body twitched, barely reacting, too far gone to fight anymore.

"You know," I mused, tilting my head. "If you had just stayed away from her, you wouldn't be here."

A wet gurgle slipped from his throat. A pathetic sound.

I sighed, shaking my head. "But you did. You fucking touched her. You thought you could have what belongs to me."

The gun pressed harder into his skull.

"And for that, Arch..."

My finger curled around the trigger.

"...you die."

BANG.

The sound ripped through the room, deafening, as Arch's skull snapped backward. Blood and brain matter splattered against the concrete wall, painting it in a grotesque display of crimson and gray. His body jerked once—twice—before going completely still, his head hanging at an unnatural angle.

Dead.

I exhaled slowly, lowering the gun, watching as blood dripped from the gaping hole in his skull, pooling onto the floor.

The room was silent now. No more screams. No more begging.

Just death.

And I smiled.

---

She looks peaceful. Too peaceful.

Curled up in bed, her body sinking into the mattress, the sheets tangled loosely around her waist. Her chest rises and falls in slow, steady breaths, lips parted slightly in sleep. Oblivious. Unaware.

My fingers drum against the armrest of my chair, slow and controlled, but my jaw is tight. I can feel the tension coiling in my muscles, a violent storm simmering beneath the surface.

She has no fucking idea.

No idea what I did with that fucker.

Arch is dead. Reduced to nothing but a lifeless, blood-soaked corpse. The same hands that touched her, that dared to roam over her body like he had any fucking right, are shattered beyond recognition. His screams still echo in my head, a symphony of agony that I played like a well-rehearsed melody. Each snap of his bones was a note, each gurgled plea was a chorus, and I savored every second of it.

But it wasn’t enough.

It will never be enough.

I let my head tip back against the chair, inhaling deeply, trying to ease the fire burning beneath my skin. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Not when it comes to her.

My pretty little writer.

I should’ve punished her too.

The thought alone has my fingers curling into a fist, my nails biting into my palm. She let him touch her. Let his filthy hands trail over what belongs to me.

I exhale sharply through my nose, my eyes locked on the screen. Watching her. Wanting her. Needing her.

I should’ve reminded her who she belongs to.

I should have taken her.

Should have ripped her fucking clothes off, thrown her onto the bed, spread her legs, fucked her senseless until she forgot everything except me. Until her body was marked with my hands, my lips, my teeth. Until my name was the only thing she could fucking say. Until she was sobbing from the pleasure, from the fear, from the overwhelming realization that there is no escape from me.

I shift in my chair, running a hand down my face, trying to shake the image from my head. It only makes it worse.

I let her go.

For now.

But if she ever lets another man touch her again…

My little writer has no idea what I'll do to her.

A slow, dark chuckle rumbles from my chest as I drag a hand through my hair, my eyes never leaving the screen. She shifts slightly in her sleep, her brows furrowing for a moment before relaxing again.

I exhale sharply, my pulse thrumming beneath my skin, the hunger inside me coiling tighter and tighter. She has no idea how deep she’s in. How far I’ll go for her.

I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees as I take in every inch of her through the screen. The way the soft glow from her bedside lamp casts a halo around her hair. The way her lashes flutter slightly, her breathing slow and steady. The way the sheets cling to her body, hinting at the curves that should be pressed beneath my hands, beneath my weight.

The things I want to do to her…

She wouldn’t survive me.

Not yet.

I inhale sharply, my body burning with the need to make it real.

But soon little writer.

──────❀🌹❀──────