8. Wraith
Chapter 8
Wraith
T he bathroom’s all white.
Pristine.
The only bit of color is the shower curtain—white, stitched with tiny soft purple flowers.
There’s no clutter.
One drawer holds a few hair ties and clips.
Another, a mix of random makeup she probably never wears.
Under the sink, extra towels stacked in neat rows and a basket stuffed with hair tools.
Nothing out of place.
Nothing personal enough to leave a mark.
But it’s all her.
Quiet. Careful. Hidden in plain sight.
I slide back the shower curtain and look at all the colorful bottles.
Lavender body wash.
Chamomile shampoo .
I pop one open.
Inhale.
Fucking hell.
It’s her.
Thick, sweet, invasive.
Clogging my throat.
Sinking into my skin.
I twist the cap off another bottle.
Body wash.
A little leaks out, thick and glossy.
I rub it between my fingers.
Imagine it coating her skin.
Slicking every soft, innocent curve.
I’m already so deep inside her world it’s bleeding into me.
And I’m not leaving without taking more.
I strip fast, boots thunking to the floor.
Step into the shower.
Water blasts down, hot and brutal.
Steam blooms thick, swallowing the room.
I grab the bottle of body wash.
Flip the cap.
I fill my palm, let it spill down my wrist, my forearm.
I brace a hand against the tile, fist my cock. Stroking.
The scent gets stronger.
Smothering.
Imagining her here.
Fragile. Warm. Innocent.
Tight.
Slick.
I stroke slow.
Imagining it’s her cunt I'm thrusting into .
Imagining her knees buckling from pleasure.
Her mouth parting on a gasp.
Her body slick and needy.
Mine.
The water beats against my back.
Hot. Unrelenting.
It should burn.
I barely feel it.
All I feel is her.
I let it build.
Let it crest.
When it rips free?—
—hot, sharp, violent?—
Forehead pressed against the tile.
Breath sawing in and out of my chest.
Release coating the wall of her shower.
I stand there for a long minute.
Panting.
Sweating.
Grinning.
Imagining it’s her I marked–not the tiles.
I turn off the water.
Without rinsing the evidence away.
I want her to find it—knowingly or not.
Step out.
Steam curls around me as I grab a towel and dry off.
I throw my clothes back on.
Leave the towel hooked behind the door.
Another thing she won’t notice.
Not yet.
But I’m not here to hide.
I look in the mirror.
The glass blooms with steam?—
A blank canvas.
Waiting.
I know exactly what it needs.
I lift my hand.
Press a finger to the surface.
It squeaks against the heat.
Each letter slow.
Deliberate.
I see you.
Dead center.
She won’t notice it tonight.
Maybe not tomorrow either.
But one night soon?—
When she steps out dripping wet, bare skin hot from the steam?—
She’ll look up.
And the words will be there.
Waiting.
Etched in breath and heat and obsession.
It’ll bleed through the fog like a whisper against her skin.
A ghost touch.
A violation.
She’ll think she’s imagining it at first.
She’ll tell herself it’s a trick of the light.
A crack in the mirror.
A memory she doesn’t remember making.
She’ll lie to herself.
But not forever.
Because the next time the mirror fogs? —
The next time she stands there vulnerable and stripped bare?—
She’ll see it again.
And again.
And again.
Until she understands.
Until she knows?—
She belongs to me.
I smile at my distorted reflection, satisfied.
The bathroom door opens letting out the contained steam?—
“Meeeooowww.”
I freeze.
What the fuck?
Sitting just outside the bathroom, a massive white cat stares up at me.
Green eyes wide. Judgy as hell.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t blink.
Just lets out another low, warbling noise that sounds like a fucking accusation.
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Where the fuck did you come from?”
He flicks his tail once, slow and deliberate, like I’m not even worth answering.
There’s been no sign of a fucking cat.
A massive fucking cat.
He sits there, pristine and silent, like he owns the place.
Maybe he does.
A flashy gold tag catches the light as he shifts .
Oleander.
Of course. Pretty. Poisonous.
We stare at each other. Longer than I’d like to admit.
I squint, and?—
Fuck!
I look away first.
Whatever.
I move through the apartment in silence.
Every corner.
Every crevice.
Hidden cameras slipping into place.
Watching.
Waiting.
Fucking cat trailing.
There won’t be a single inch of her world left untouched.
Nowhere she can hide.
No moment she can call her own.
Not when she sleeps.
Not when she cries.
Not when she touches herself, thinking she’s alone.
I slip into her bedroom one last time.
And take out the black lily.
A single bloom—dark as spilled ink, heavy with meaning.
The death of her old life.
Transforming to her new one.
Everything she’ll become once I’m done with her.
I set it right in the center of the bed.
The sheets—pristine and pale—swallow the black whole.
It doesn’t belong here.
Neither do I.
The cat agrees.
But I’m staying anyway .
She built her world out of light. I’ll teach her how to worship in the dark.
I slip back out the front door.
The cat chirps a good riddance behind me.
Little bastard thinks he’s won.
Maybe he did. This once.
By the time she comes home, I’ll be back in my own space.
Watching.
Waiting.
Lily doesn’t believe in monsters.
But she will.
And she’ll learn to love hers.