7. Wraith
Chapter 7
Wraith
T he lock gives with barely any effort.
I’m not surprised.
No security system. No second deadbolt.
She leaves herself open.
Vulnerable.
Fragile in a world dying to devour girls like her.
And now, it’s my hands she’s placed her fate in.
My judgment.
My mercy.
She should know better.
She doesn’t.
But I’m the one that’s going to make sure she learns.
And make sure she remembers it.
The door clicks open with a soft snick, barely more than a breath of sound.
It yields under my palm—light, warm from the afternoon sun .
The moment I step inside, the feral thing pacing the cage of my ribs finally breathes deep and lays down.
Teeth bared. Watching. Waiting.
But settled.
This isn’t a violation.
It’s a fucking homecoming.
She doesn’t know it yet—but she’s mine.
Mine to study.
Mine to touch.
Mine to do with as I see fit.
This isn’t peace.
It isn’t relief.
It’s something darker.
Like control sharpening into possession.
My soul recognizing what was always meant to be mine.
The air is thick with her.
And I breathe deeper.
Soft. Floral. Clean.
Hints of lavender and sun-warm skin, deceptively sweet, disgustingly pure.
Something delicate. Fragile.
Porcelain begging to be shattered.
And it’s hers.
And it’s mine.
It’s fucking intoxicating.
I exhale—slow, deep—dragging her into my lungs, letting it sink into my very essence.
Like she’s already inside me.
Where she belongs.
And I’m never letting her go.
The kitchen isn’t new .
Cheap cabinets painted over in soft cream, hardware switched out for delicate brushed gold handles like she thought no one would notice the cracked linoleum underneath.
Sunlight bleeds through gauzy curtains, casting everything in a sickeningly warm glow.
A container of cookies sits alone on the bare counters. Homemade—pale and oddly shaped, dusted with something that seems to shimmer. Daring me to try one.
I move closer, fingers grazing the counter as I pass.
The wood’s warped in places, rough where she couldn’t fix it. She’s painted over the ugly parts. Pretends they aren’t there?—
The same way she looks at the world.
The scent here is stronger. Lavender clings to the air—thick and sweet.
My gaze keeps snagging on those fucking cookies.
I look away and crack open the pantry, scanning the inside.
Neat rows of clear canisters, and spice jars. Each with stupid little labels written in careful, loopy handwriting.
Flour, sugar, baking powder—enough to supply a goddamn bakery.
Instant ramen stuffed in the back like a dirty secret.
A can of soup three years expired.
She plays perfect.
But even her careful world has cracks.
The fridge is the same?—
Fresh fruit. Cut vegetables. Homemade jam with a smiley face drawn on the lid.
I grab the door to shut it? —
Then catch sight of a jug tucked in the door shelf.
Orange juice.
I grin.
Can’t help it.
Fingers hook the handle, lifting it out. Twist the cap. Tip it back.
It’s sweet. Too sweet for me. I’ve never been a fan.
I swallow it down anyway.
She’ll drink from this tomorrow.
No idea my mouth was already there.
I’ll already be inside her—and she’ll never know.
I shove it back into place.
Door swinging shut with a soft, innocent thud.
My finger caresses the rim of a mug sitting in the sink. Oddly jealous of the inanimate object that gets to know the feel of her lips.
It won’t be long until I find out for myself.
I skim the counter, palm flattening where her hands have pressed, where she’s prepped meals, where she’s lived the life I’ve only ever pictured.
Does she hum off-key while making tea?
Dance barefoot while she cooks?
The cookies pull at me again.
Those damn cookies. Fucking taunting me.
I snatch one out of the container, biting down before I bother thinking it through.
It dissolves on my tongue?—
Soft. Sweet. Lemon.
And then the taste hits.
Lavender.
I chew slow, letting the strange mix of floral and sugar invade my mouth.
Figures she’d make something like cookies with fucking flowers.
Before I turn away, I grab another.
I can’t help but wonder if this is how she tastes.
The living room’s the same brand of lie as the kitchen.
Pretty on the outside.
Built on cracks no one’s supposed to notice.
Plaster fractures spiderweb under oversized tapestries, their heavy fabric drowning the walls in color and texture.
The couch is old but cared for, layered in handwoven blankets and pillows so soft they look like they could swallow a person whole.
Everything picked for comfort, not flash.
If she can’t see the cracks, they don’t exist.
If she paints over them—a veil of perfection—they’ll disappear.
But they won’t.
They’re still there.
Still waiting.
And I’m going to be the one to show her
Three bookshelves take up an entire wall. Overloaded—cheap particleboard bending under the weight of too many paperbacks.
No surprise there.
She looks like the type who’d drown herself in fantasy worlds and fairy tales.
I scan the rows.
Austen.
Alcott .
The kind of books girls like her cling to—soft stories with neat endings, good guys who always win.
Predictable.
Neat little stories about heartbreak and strength?—
About women who survive and men who stay.
Everything she thinks she wants.
Everything she thinks she is.
The shelves are packed.
Harry Potter. Percy Jackson. A Wrinkle in Time. Ender’s Game.
The kind of books kids cling to when they need somewhere else to be.
Their spines are cracked, pages worn thin, like she’s read them a hundred times.
It doesn’t fit.
The way she looks at the world—like it’s good. Safe.
And yet here she is.
Escaping it every chance she gets.
Disassociating into worlds with magic and happy endings.
I trail a finger across the shelf, skimming over the familiar titles.
I almost move on?—
Until I spot a cluster of titles I don’t recognize.
No bright covers.
No whimsical fonts.
Curious, I pull one loose.
Flip it open to the middle.
The words hit like a fucking punch to the gut.
Heat. Hands. Thighs spread. Pleading. Filthy promises rasped against fevered skin.
I blink .
Read it again.
No fucking way.
I grab another book.
Same thing?—
Only dirtier.
I thumb through another.
And another.
All smut.
All filthy.
All hiding in plain sight.
My jaw ticks.
Something tightens low in my gut—hot and coiling.
Little Lily.
Burying that twisted mind under layers of lavender and sunshine.
Pretending she’s pure when she’s been dreaming of getting ruined.
Of getting owned.
Of getting fucking wrecked.
I slide the book back into place with a slow, deliberate shove.
Looks like she’s been waiting for me a lot longer than she realizes.
Something shoved under a pile of magazines catches my eye.
I drag it out.
A piece of shit laptop—cheap, outdated, barely clinging to relevance.
I crack it open.
The screen’s split in the corner, a jagged spiderweb fanning out across the glass.
I thumb the power button.
The fan whines—loud, shrill, like it’s fighting for every last breath.
She deserves better than this junk.
Better than this life.
Better than broken hand-me-downs and the half-hearted scraps people toss her way.
I could give her everything.
Make sure she never wants for anything again.
There was a time I couldn’t have.
Not that long ago—even if it feels like a lifetime ago—I couldn’t have given her shit.
Had to take what I could get.
Didn’t matter if it was broken.
Didn’t matter if it wasn’t enough.
If it got me closer to what I needed, I fucking took it.
The first time I stole something, I wasn’t sure I’d pull it off.
But I needed it more than I feared failing.
It was worth the risk.
Sixteen years old. No home. No name. No fucking leash.
A battered office building five blocks south, glass cracked along the frame, like the whole place was holding itself together out of habit. I watched it for three nights—counted the cleaning crew, the graveyard shift, the way the security cameras lagged just long enough on the north side entrance.
I slipped through the alley, jammed the latch on the side door, and was inside before the next round of security checks.
Third floor.
Back room.
A tech startup that thought a reinforced glass door was enough to keep the world out. It wasn’t. I pried it open with a broken tire iron I pulled out of a dumpster the night before.
No alarms.
No motion sensors.
Just an empty office with a row of polished desks—and the crown jewel sitting right there, humming under the weight of a thousand untouched opportunities.
The computer wasn’t new.
It wasn’t clean.
But it was fast.
Fast enough to rip open the city’s guts if I knew how to use it right.
I didn’t hesitate.
Unplugged the tower, shoved it into my pack, and walked out the way I came—quiet, invisible, unstoppable.
By the time the morning shift realized it was gone, I was already gutting the security protocols, stripping the machine bare, rebuilding it to serve me.
Nobody noticed a sixteen-year-old ghost moving through their systems.
Nobody cared.
And I made damn sure they never saw me coming again.
It wasn’t the last thing I stole.
It wasn’t even the best.
But it was enough. And now
My fingers dance across the back of the couch, slow and deliberate, pressing into the cushions, wondering if this is the exact spot she curls up.
Where she’s small. Soft. Oblivious.
Is it where she reads ?
Wrapped in the blanket artfully thrown over the corner, cup of hot tea in hand.
What I’ve imagined her doing a thousand fucking times.
I spent weeks on the outside.
Watching shadows move behind windows.
Guessing at the pieces I couldn’t reach.
Now?
I’m inside.
Staining her sanctuary with the filth of my desire.
And she has no fucking idea.
Every second I breathe in this life she built without me only feeds the need to tear it apart?—
To rebuild it with me so tightly woven through her that she could never escape.
I let it take hold.
Sink teeth into the thought.
Anchor it deep.
A new blueprint, already drafting itself across her world.
I’m already dismantling it, piece by delicate piece.
Consuming her past.
Inhaling her.
Exhaling us.
Infecting her space with every ghost of a touch I leave behind.
Tainting it.
Because this life—this existence?—
It’s wrong without me.
And I’m going to savor every fucking second of her remaking.
Created by my hands. My mouth. My fucking need.
I’ll rebuild her life—our life .
Into one she won’t survive without me.
Her walls are littered with framed photos.
Snapshots of a life too curated to be real.
Friends. Places. Frozen smiles.
All of it so… fucking fake.
The so-called “friends”?
She’s always the one leaning in, never the one being pulled close.
The vacations?
No one appears twice.
They’re mostly of her alone.
Graduation?
A perfect, beaming smile.
No family anywhere in the frame.
No one has ever stayed. There’s no one to protect her.
Surrounded by people.
But never touched by them.
Alone. Like her whole life’s been an unfinished sentence, waiting for me to dictate the ending.
I trail my fingers over the frames, straightening the ones hanging just a little off.
I almost miss it.
One picture tucked between the others.
An anomaly.
Lily, smiling—pressed against a man’s side.
His arm tight around her waist.
Too fucking familiar.
His grip—possessive.
Like he thinks she belongs to him.
I freeze.
Fingers tighten around the frame, white- knuckled.
Jaw clamps shut, teeth grinding behind the stillness.
My whole body coils, a growl burning under my skin, boiling my blood.
Heartbeat hammering once. Twice.
Then nothing.
A silence so sharp it could cut.
Who the fuck is he?
I study the man’s face.
The shape of his jaw.
The easy, thoughtless way he touches her.
Does she love him?
Has she fucked him?
Does he know what he’s touching doesn’t belong to him?
The thoughts crawl under my skin.
I want to rip the picture in half.
Crush it under my boot.
Burn it to ash.
Erase him.
Instead, I slide the frame from the wall.
Leaving an empty space behind.
Just like he will leave when I erase him from the world.
Tomorrow, she’ll notice.
Will she care?
Will she assume she misplaced it?
Or will she know it was me—that I was here?
Will she be afraid?
She should be.
But she won’t be.
Not yet.
Her Princeton degree hangs center stage—framed, gleaming—even if she’s rendered it fucking useless .
It’s surrounded by floral design certifications.
Exactly the kind of thing she’d be proud of.
Several of them.
Jesus Christ.
How many does one woman need?
A plaque for community outreach.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
A letter of appreciation from a children’s hospital.
Sick kids and fucking flowers.
She collects kindness like accolades.
The glass hums faintly under my fingertips as I leave traces of me behind.
Fragile.
Easy to shatter.
Just like Lily.
Everything she’s built?—
Every perfectly shining piece of it?—
It’s too good.
Too soft.
Too fucking pure.
How much of it will I have to break to make her mine?
I smile.
Small. Cold.
The answer’s easy.
All of it.
Her bedroom’s an altar to control.
Sheets tucked too tight.
Pillows lined up like soldiers waiting for inspection.
Not a wrinkle in sight.
Like she’s expecting one of those glossy home magazines to show up.
The walls are heavy with rosebud wallpaper.
A white lace canopy drips over the bed, brushing the headboard like a sigh.
Woven baskets tucked under tables, stacked with blankets in soft blush and cream.
Every pillow, every blanket, every dainty little detail screams desperate innocence.
I move closer.
I curl my knuckles into the pillowcase.
Imagining her curled here at night.
Hair spread across the fabric.
Body small. Warm. Oblivious.
I could leave it.
Leave it pristine the way she left it.
I don’t.
I grab the edge of the top sheet—tight, folded perfectly—and yank it loose.
The bed sighs under the disturbance. Pillows go toppling over the side of the bed.
A ripple through her little perfect world.
The fabric’s cool. Smooth.
I sink into the mattress, fitting myself into the space where I want her to be.
Right in the center of the space she carved out for herself.
The mattress gives.
Molding around me like it would her.
Fuck.
Her scent is strongest here—more intimate .
I grab one of her pillows. Press it to my face. Breathe her in
Deep. Greedy.
Dragging her into my lungs like I could keep her there.
Does she lie here thinking about someone?
Touch herself under these perfect fucking covers?
Cry out someone else’s name?
Is it the man from the photo?
Shove off the bed with a growl.
Plant my feet back on her floor.
She’ll see the disturbed bedding.
The impression of my body pressed into the sheets.
She’ll know someone was here.
But she’ll lie to herself.
Tell herself it was nothing.
That she left it like that.
That she’s still safe.
I smile.
We’ll change that soon enough.
The closet’s packed so full it barely breathes.
Soft colors everywhere—pale blues, muted yellows, washed-out pinks.
Cashmere. Silk. Light cotton.
Every fabric looks like it’d tear if you touched it wrong.
I skim my hand across the racks, feeling the hum of the quiet life she’s built.
Nothing bold.
Nothing meant to draw attention.
Then—
A flash of something finer, hidden between the everyday sweaters and cardigans.
I shove the hangers apart, jaw ticking.
Buried in the middle are a few dresses that don’t belong here.
A slip of champagne silk.
A frosty pink number, delicate as spun sugar.
Soft sage green with tiny embroidered flowers climbing the hem.
Expensive.
Weightless.
Fucking dangerous.
The kind of dresses meant for being shown off.
My throat tightens.
I can already see it.
Her—
All soft smiles and bare shoulders, draped over some bastard’s arm.
Looking up at him with those wide eyes like he’s the goddamn center of her world.
I shove the hangers back together, rougher than necessary.
Burying the dresses under the safety of her pastels and worn sweaters.
Burying them where they belong.
Where no one else gets to see.
Not unless I let them.
And I won’t.
I move deeper.
Shoes line the floor of the closet in perfect fucking order.
Ballet flats. Sneakers. Soft suede boots that’ve seen better days.
And then? —
Tucked in the back, almost like she’s hiding them?—
Heels.
A lot of them.
Strappy, glittering, pointed, vicious.
Some still in boxes. Some lined up like weapons no one taught her how to use.
My eyes catch on the bottoms?—
Red.
Fucking Louboutins.
Real ones.
I crouch, thumbing the sole of one delicate heel, feeling the worn scuff marks.
Light. Barely used.
These haven’t been dragged through parties and late nights.
They’ve been worn once, maybe twice.
Enough to pose.
Enough to be seen.
But not enough to belong to her.
I lean back on my heels, studying the dresses again.
The shoes.
The way they don’t fit her life at all.
Soft little Lily, with her broken laptop and three-year expired soup?—
And a closet full of silk and designer heels.
I clench my jaw.
Some rich bastard buying her silence?
Some asshole dangling pretty things in front of her to parade her around?
The thought rakes sharp across my brain, cold and jagged .
Fucking sick.
I’ll find the bastards.
She’s not for sale.
But they’ll fucking pay.
I shove the shoes back into their perfect rows, chest tight.
Another mystery to unravel later.
Another lie she’s wrapped herself in without even knowing it.
I ease the closet door shut.
Then turn toward the dresser?—
The last thing standing between me and the pieces she keeps hidden.
Not much sits on top.
Just a jewelry box.
Small. Scratched.
Barely holding itself together under the shine.
I flip it open.
A few cheap trinkets clink against each other.
A braided bracelet.
A ring missing a stone.
Tiny earrings shaped like flowers.
Pretty junk.
Meaningless.
Except—
At the bottom, tucked like an afterthought,
A woman’s wristwatch.
Slim. Silver.
Dead silent.
The hands are frozen at 11:48.
Like time just gave up on her one day.
Forgot she was supposed to be moving forward .
I thumb it over, feeling the tarnished metal bite cold into my skin.
It’s the only thing in here with weight.
Real weight.
Maybe it mattered once.
I set it back.
Careful.
More careful than I mean to be.
Two bottles of perfume sit beside the jewelry box.
Both half-full.
Both gathering dust.
One’s a delicate glass rose.
The other—cheap, almost childish, glitter embedded in the bottle.
Neither smell like they’ve been touched in months.
Why would they?
She doesn’t need perfume to hide behind.
When she walks around already smelling like fucking heaven.
Like flowers pressed to warm skin.
Soft. Sweet. Innocent.
She doesn’t even know what a weapon that is.
It makes my teeth ache.
She’s not pretending to be innocent.
She is.
Even if her choice in literature hints at otherwise.
I squat down and drag the bottom drawer open.
Soft joggers.
Worn sweatpants.
Oversized sweaters stacked in careful rows.
Clothes she doesn’t think twice about.
Soft. Worn. Comfortable.
The version of her no one touches.
The one I’ll own first.
I press my fingers into the fabric.
Feel the give.
The ghost of her body lingering in every thread.
I shove the drawer shut.
Move to the next one.
Little pajama sets.
Shorts barely bigger than a handspan.
Loose cotton shirts, soft enough to melt under my touch.
Nothing seductive.
Nothing intentional.
Just pieces of comfort she slips into when the world’s too much.
It makes my mouth dry.
My cock twitches to life.
My fingers itch, hovering.
I don’t take anything.
Not yet.
Top drawer.
I pause.
Then pull it open.
Lace.
Silk.
Cotton.
All delicate as a fucking whisper.
Underwear folded into precise little squares, like she’s hiding them from herself.
I run my hand through them, slow.
Drag my fingers across the lace .
The silk.
Each piece a secret she’s never meant anyone to see.
I thumb a pair of pale pink panties between my fingers.
Fabric so thin it might tear if handled too rough.
She wore these.
Lived in them.
Let them cling to her skin without a second thought.
I slip the panties into my jacket pocket.
A keepsake.
A reminder.
A promise.
She’s already mine.
A thread pulled loose, fraying every belief she’s held?—
and soon, she’ll feel it unravel completely.