4. Wraith
Chapter 4
Wraith
T his isn’t the first time.
It won’t be the last.
It started with a single morning.
One reckless moment.
A fucking relentless need to see her—not through a screen, but in person.
I told myself it was just once.
Curiosity.
Closure.
A quick hit to kill the craving.
Now?
It’s an addiction.
An infatuation.
A compulsion so deep it’s threaded into my blood.
In my soul.
But today?—
Today I’m changing the rules.
Twisting them to fit the game my darkness craves to play.
No more rooftops.
No more distance.
No more pretending.
Today, I’m closer.
Much closer.
Close enough to breathe in the soft floral scent that clings to her between heartbeats.
Close enough to watch the way she adjusts the strap of her worn bag, brushing her fingers reverently over the frayed edge the way a child would a beloved blanket.
Close enough to memorize the rhythm of her steps.
The way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear without thinking.
The way she hums something under her breath—a soft, unguarded thread of sound so innocent it makes my teeth ache.
Close enough that if I reached out—if I let my fingers twitch even slightly—I could brush the ends of her hair.
Touch her.
Brand her.
Claim her.
And still—she doesn’t notice.
Still floats through the world like it can’t touch her.
Like she’s immune to monsters.
My hands curl inside my jacket pockets, knuckles flexing against the worn leather.
Every tiny, careless movement she makes pulls at me—achingly slow and merciless, dragging me closer to the edge I’ve spent my whole damn life avoiding.
But I know, if she’s the one pushing, the fall will be the sweetest fucking death .
This game?
She doesn’t even know she’s playing.
Worse—she’s not playing by the fucking rules.
And it will cost her.
Every instinct in her body should be screaming by now.
A warning with a glaring neon sign telling her she’s being hunted.
She should feel me—the monster lurking in her darkness.
That little voice within should be screaming.
To look up.
To run.
It doesn’t.
She just keeps walking—head held high, smile soft, completely exposed.
It’s like she’s never had to survive a day in her life. No self-preservation.
I should show her what it means to survive. To sacrifice small pieces of herself until there’s nothing left but the darkest parts.
The thought crawls beneath my skin.
Hot.
Prickling.
Ugly.
It shouldn’t bother me.
Shouldn’t scrape at my nerves, sharp and constant, like a blade dragged slowly across skin.
I was built to tear things apart.
To find the cracks and split them wide open.
But watching her move through the world, her light pure and untouched—like no one’s ever tried to break her?—
It makes something vile stir inside me.
Makes me want to be the first and the last.
I don’t like it.
Not one fucking bit.
But why do I care?
She’s not mine to protect.
Not my responsibility.
I have no business bleeding for something that’s not my damn problem.
I didn’t want her.
I didn’t fucking need her.
But want and need are two different things.
But desire’s a compulsion—and the monstrous beast raging from inside my chest doesn’t listen to logic.
It only knows hunger.
The kind that doesn’t stop when it’s fed—only when it’s destroyed everything it touches.
And sooner or later, it’s going to tear her apart.
Consume her—body and soul.
She reaches the tiny flower shop she works at full time.
Thorn & Petal—where her degrees in computer software and software engineering from Princeton withers away like the discarded petals deemed useless.
Full honors. Bright future. A goddamn fast pass to any life she wanted.
And she chose this.
Fucking with flowers at a small, family-owned business.
George and Evelyn Carter’s retirement dream, tucked between a crumbling bookstore and a bakery no one remembers to visit anymore.
They treat her like some rare bloom they stumbled across—something to coddle, to protect. The child they never had .
The kind of place that’s like stepping into a fairytale garden, warmth wrapping around you in an embrace most people probably find comforting.
Soft light dripping from the windows. Ivy crawling the brick like it belongs there. Gold lettering over the door promising something gentle.
I hate it.
It feels more like a noose to me.
A pretty fucking lie tightening around her throat.
And she doesn’t even feel it slipping tighter.
Punishment for daring to breathe my darkness into it.
The gold lettering on the old wooden sign flashes as she steps under it, the morning light crowning her in a damn halo.
Like the fucking angel she is.
Keys slip from her bag, fingers working the lock with the kind of thoughtless ease that makes my jaw tighten—an ache blooming behind my teeth to sink them into her flesh and leave a bleeding mark she couldn’t hide.
How long would it take to train that out of her?
I wonder how bruised her knees would have to get, trembling and obedient before me, while I branded the rules of the world onto her skin—until understanding flickered behind those bright green eyes.
Would she cry? Would she beg?
Would she finally fear the shadows—the darkness?
Understand that the world doesn’t give two shits if she breaks?
That with or without her, it keeps moving?
She acts like there’s a safety net that will always catch her if she falls .
I want to be the one who proves it won’t.
That it doesn’t exist.
The door swings shut behind her, the bell’s chime lost to the waking city’s noise.
A better man would walk away. Never look back.
But I never claimed to be a good man, let alone a better one—and I’m already halfway across the street.
I used to tell myself there were lines I wouldn’t cross.
Rules I wouldn’t break.
Morals I still held onto.
But lines move.
Rules bend.
Morals shift—when you’re starving.
And right now?
I’m fucking famished.
The bell above the door chimes.
The sound is soft—yet it pierces my ears.
The shop’s very own Paul Revere, announcing a fucking invasion.
The air sticks to my skin—wet, heavy, reeking of cut stems and something sweeter, something sharper, something I’m personally acquainted with—the cloying decay of a slow death.
Muted golden light filters through the front windows, catching on the dew still clinging to the bouquets lined up for sale.
Handwritten tags dangle from each one, telling you what to feel.
Grief. Hope. Love.
Pick your poison .
The dark wood counters gleam like they’ve been polished to death.
A chalkboard sign near the register wobbles slightly on its hook, the handwriting messy and a little too cheerful:
Lost your way or feeling low? Let’s find a flower that helps you grow!
I stare at it for a beat.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Wrap death in enough ribbons, and people call it beautiful.
And there she is.
Behind the counter.
Arranging a bouquet like danger doesn’t exist. Like I don’t exist.
Her fingers move delicately over the petals, like she’s afraid to bruise them.
She hums—a soft, forgettable tune that would drive me insane if it weren’t for the fact that each note kisses her lips on its way out.
She doesn’t glance up.
Doesn’t pause.
Doesn’t see me.
Her hands keep moving.
Her smile stays soft.
Untouched. Untouchable.
She hadn’t felt me outside.
And she feels nothing now, even with me standing right in front of her.
She doesn’t even look up.
Un-fucking-believable.
How many others have stood right here?
How many men breathing the same air she does, thinking they could touch her—take her—before she even registered their existence?
The monstrous thing inside my chest threatens to rip its way out.
Rough. Violent. Hungry.
So. God. Damn. Hungry.
She’s too naive.
Too fucking vulnerable.
An unguarded delicacy dressed up pretty—an open invitation to every monster in the city.
And they could’ve had her.
My body vibrates with the need for retribution—feral, merciless, inevitable.
I’ll rip every hand from every body that’s ever dared to touch her.
No one else gets to touch what I haven’t finished breaking yet.
But she still hasn’t noticed me.
I step forward.
Slow. Measured.
The old wooden floorboards creak under my boots.
Nothing.
Her humming fills the space between us—soft, thoughtless, maddening.
Like she’s daring me to break it.
How fucking oblivious can one person be?
There’s a little service bell next to the register.
Right next to her.
I reach out and tap it.
Ding .
The sound slices through the air, while the single note clings to life.
She finally looks up.
And… nothing.
No inhale of breath.
No shift in posture or guarded expression.
Just those big green eyes, soft and open, meeting mine like we’ve never crossed paths before.
Like she doesn’t remember the exact moment this obsession started.
There’s just… nothing.
She isn’t thinking about me.
She isn’t obsessing over me.
She isn’t unraveling the way I am.
But I’m drowning in her.
And that pisses me off.
Her smile doesn’t even falter.
“Oh, hello,” she says brightly. “I didn’t see you there.”
My teeth grind together.
“No shit.”
I wait for her expression to crack.
For the smile to dim, even slightly.
It doesn’t.
If anything, it softens.
“Can I help you with something?” she asks, voice dipped in sugar. She gestures toward the chalkboard with the ridiculous rhyme grinning down at me. “Maybe a personalized bouquet?”
I snort, the sound low and rough.
The corner of her mouth lifts, like she thinks we’re sharing some private joke.
I don’t fucking smile back.
I move closer.
Closer than I should.
Close enough to catch her scent.
Flowers. Soap. Skin.
Different from the heavy perfume clinging to the shop.
Cleaner. Warmer.
Unmistakably her.
Close enough she should feel it.
The weight of my want coiling around her throat, invisible, patient, inevitable.
A leash she doesn’t even know she’s wearing.
I want it to feel oppressive.
I want her skin to crawl.
I want her instincts to scream.
But she keeps smiling—those bright green eyes never leaving mine, waiting for a response like I’m nothing more than another customer.
“Do you ever fucking stop?” I ask.
My voice scrapes out low. Controlled. Dangerous.
A weapon unsheathed.
She blinks.
Tilts her head slightly.
Not confused.
Not nervous.
Just… curious.
“Stop what?”
“Smiling all the goddamned time.”
A soft breath of laughter escapes her.
Light. Unfiltered.
Like I’m not the world’s biggest fucking asshole standing in front of her.
She doesn’t fidget.
Doesn’t look away.
Just watches me.
Smiling.
Always fucking smiling.
“Should I stop?” she asks.
Her voice is light.
Musical.
Touched with laughter, like this is the start of a pleasant conversation.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
And the most horrifying.
Because beautiful things aren’t meant for monsters.
They’re meant to be kept behind glass, high and untouchable.
Out of reach.
Out of ruin.
So monsters like me can’t break them.
And I’m really looking forward to breaking her.
The silence stretches long past what’s comfortable.
I wait.
Watching her.
Expecting the mask to slip.
Wishing for it.
Hoping for even one crack in that perfectly pleasant facade.
But it doesn’t come.
She just is.
Light. Open .
As if the world has never asked her to dim.
The world didn’t ask me.
It taught me.
Taught me to close my fists around everything soft and innocent before someone else did.
Taught me to survive in the dark.
And I hate her for it.
I hate that she’s never had to crawl through the dark.
Never had to scrape by until there was blood under her nails.
Never had to become a monster just to survive.
Her light is too fucking bright.
And I ache to be the one who dims it.
I’m standing right in front of her.
And she still doesn’t see me.
Not the man.
Not the obsession.
Not the monster waiting to eat her alive.
The longer I stare, the more I expect… something.
Anything.
But she gives nothing.
She just stands there.
Smiling.
Open.
Oblivious.
Like the idea of me hurting her doesn’t even exist in her world.
And that?
That’ll be her undoing.
Because she has no idea she’s the drug I crave.
And like every addiction, I only crave more .
She should be wondering why a man like me is standing too close, speaking too low, watching her like she’s a full-course meal I’ve been starved for.
But she isn’t.
She’s still smiling.
And then?—
She leans in.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
“Would you like a flower?” she asks, cheerful, oblivious.
Like we’re not playing a game with teeth and blood under the surface.
She holds it out to me—a pink fucking lily.
Delicate.
Soft.
Matching the one holding it.
For a second?—
Just a second?—
My body locks up.
My brain glitches.
Because this?
This is her feeding my obsession.
She doesn’t know it.
She doesn’t mean to.
But that’s what this is.
She’s handing me softness.
Offering me something fragile.
Like I’m the kind of man who would keep it safe.
Like she has no fucking clue what I am.
I could take it.
Part of me wants to.
Wants to pocket it.
Carry a piece of her with me.
Brand her into my world one petal at a time.
But I don’t.
Instead, I step closer.
Just enough for the air between us to thin.
Just enough to feel the warmth of her breath against my collarbone.
Just enough for her to crane that long, slender neck to look up at me.
I strangle the groan clawing up my throat.
She smells like everything I’ve never been allowed to have.
“No,” I say.
Low. Final. A blade slipping between ribs.
Then I turn.
Walk out.
No explanation.
No backward glance.
Just the sound of that fucking bell above the door, soft and mocking, announcing my retreat.
But I’ll be back.
I’m just getting started.
I need to see how bright her eyes look wide with fear.
I need to watch that light flicker.
I will make her show me.
And I will love every fucking minute of it.
Even if it means dragging her into the dark with me.
Especially if it means that.