13. Wraith
Chapter 13
Wraith
T he church is a rotting carcass, hollow and forgotten.
Cracked marble. Splintered pews.
And the stench of old incense fighting a losing battle against fresh—and not so fresh death.
Perfect stage.
Perfect audience.
I step through the ruins, boots whispering over the broken bones of better men buried beneath the church.
And there he is.
Liam Carter.
Slumped in a crooked chair behind a battered desk, laptop screens flickering like dying stars around him. Living in filth like the fucking pig he is.
Scruffy. Greasy. Arrogant.
He doesn’t notice me until I’m standing right fucking there.
His head jerks up, eyes wild .
I let my gaze wander the room, slow and unimpressed.
“Well,” I murmur, hands loose at my sides, “this is charming. Bit sacrilegious for a tech hub, don’t you think?”
Carter scrambles, hands fumbling under the desk.
Idiot.
I lift the gun he’s searching for between two fingers.
“Looking for this?”
His face drains of color.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls, trying to sound tough. It comes out high and shaky.
I cock my head.
Smile behind the mask.
“You don’t know?” I mock. “Funny. I know you.”
I step closer, lazy, dragging out the moment. Watching him sweat.
“Liam Carter. Cybersecurity darling.
Personal cleaner for Voss.
Supplier of missing persons.
And—” I tilt my head— “a thirty-six-year-old man who still sucks his fucking thumb when he thinks no one’s watching.”
His mouth drops open. Horror creeping in.
“You—you’re Wraith,” he breathes.
I grin slow.
“Not half as stupid as you look.
Well… maybe that’s generous.”
He jolts up, like he thinks running will help.
I aim the gun at his forehead.
“Ah-ah-ah.”
He freezes.
I sigh .
“You see, I was going to kill you either way,” I say, voice light, conversational, “but lucky for you. I’m in the middle of a little… game.”
I circle the desk, movements easy and unbothered, gun trailing him.
“And you, Carter? Congratulations. You get to be the star of tonight’s show. That will really piss her off.”
His breathing hitches. Panic thickening the air.
“I’ll do anything,” he blurts. “Please—whatever you want?—”
“Good, good.” I nod, dropping the gun, but not putting it away. He is a fucking idiot after all.
“Why don’t you show me your system?”
If it can even be called that.
“You want to see my—” He gestures to the lazily constructed rig before him.
“Call it professional curiosity.”
I’m not even remotely interested.
He brightens—stupid fucking man—and starts bragging.
Spitting out details about encryption layers, dark net shells, ghost servers.
I let him talk.
Smile.
Nod.
Pretend to be impressed.
God, even seventeen year old me could’ve hacked circles around this dumbass.
What he doesn’t know is while he’s showing off his “system” like a proud papa, I’m behind his back—cloning files, dragging every sick little secret into the light.
All with a few taps on my phone before I let him know I was here.
He’s still yammering when I slip the injector out of my belt.
Tiny click.
Tiny prick.
He jolts.
“What the hell was that?” His hand flies to his neck.
I smile under the mask.
“Oh, just a little something to make it painless,” I lie.
“Sweet dreams, Carter.”
His mouth twists, confusion slipping into terror.
He tries to move—tries to shout.
Fails.
The neurotoxin locks him up in seconds.
Eyes wide.
Breath shallow.
Frozen.
But his insides?
His insides are liquefying.
I step closer, crouching until I’m level with him.
“You think a piece of shit like you gets an easy death?” I murmur.
“Tsk. Tsk. Should’ve picked a better god, Carter.”
His pupils blow wide.
Silent agony.
He’s unnaturally stiff, twitching.
Skin starting to sag grotesquely over bones already softening.
It’s not fast.
It’s not merciful .
It’s not even art.
It’s justice.
I straighten, watching the life bleed out of him without a single sound.
A better fate than he gave anyone else.
When the final shudder rips through him, I step over his cooling corpse and set to work.
The church groans around me—old wood shifting with each lash of wind, dust thick in the dying light.
I drag Carter’s body upright, propping him in the chair like he’s still alive, like he didn’t just choke to death on his own fucking organs.
His head lolls uselessly to the side.
I grab a handful of his greasy hair and yank it back, forcing his empty gaze forward.
Perfect.
The monitors blink and hum, still alive even if he’s not.
I ghost across the wreckage, boots kicking up a cloud of dirt and rot.
Because this isn’t just about cleaning up another loose end.
This isn’t about vengeance, or duty, or any of the old ghosts snarling in my blood.
This?
This is about her.
The little demon who won’t leave my head.
The one who’s been slipping through the cracks, showing up at my kills, leaving behind chaos and cigarette smoke and the faint scent of gasoline.
I don’t know her name.
I don’t know her face.
But I know the way she moves.
I know the way her laugh sounds when the blood hits the floor.
I know the way she smells.
And tonight?
Tonight, I’m going to put on a fucking show just for her.
I rip into Carter’s files, gutting his network from the inside out. Stealing everything—every dirty secret, every sick experiment he buried under layers of encryption.
My fingers fly over the keyboard, breath slow and controlled.
Because this isn’t about Carter.
He’s just the bait.
She’s the target.
I can already picture it—her boots crunching over the broken glass, her mouth twisting into that sharp, manic grin when she sees what I’ve left for her.
She’s going to lose her fucking mind.
And I’m going to be right here, watching every second.
A hum builds under my skin, tight and hot, coiling in my gut.
The screens flicker once.
Twice.
Then—
A message just for her.
The words pulse across every monitor in blood-red letters, burning into the gloom.
I lean back on my heels, admiring my work.
Perfect.
I set it so that it activates when the mouse moves. I prob Carter’s very dead hand over it and the moment she touches him?—
Surprise.
I can already see it—the moment her rage detonates, the moment she realizes she’s been beaten at her own game.
She won’t walk away untouched this time.
Not a fucking chance.
I shift into the shadows, heart steady, pulse ticking slow and mean.
Waiting.
Grinning behind the mask.
Come on, little demon.
Come and find me.
The air shifts, electric.
A scuff of boots against the broken floor.
I see her.
She can’t see me.
Sliding through the crumbling archway like it’s the gates of hell.
No idea she’s stepping into a trap just for her.
The second she breathes in, her body tenses.
She knows.
Smells the blood in the air.
Feels death humming against her skin.
Good.
I sink deeper into the dark, watching.
She moves slow. Controlled.
Eyes scanning the wreckage, bootsteps crunching over shattered glass.
She sneaks up on Carter, looking hard at work.
She grabs his shoulder and pulls him away from the desk.
Then—she sees it.
Every screen.
Every monitor.
TAG, YOU’RE IT.
A sharp inhale punches out of her.
Taut muscles. Coiled rage.
She doesn’t move at first.
Just stands there.
Silent.
Simmering.
And then the explosion hits.
“Oh, you sneaky, conniving, cocky little SHIT!”
She grabs a dusty keyboard and hurls it against the wall.
Plastic shatters. Sparks burst.
Next a screen meets her fury—ripped off the desk, smashed into the floor.
“You think this is CUTE?!” she roars, stalking through the mess.
God, she’s beautiful like this.
Wild.
Untamed.
Dangerous.
She kicks the chair Carter’s corpse is slumped in, sending it skidding, the body jolting lifelessly, toppling to the ground.
Her breathing’s ragged now.
Sharp. Furious.
She paces like a panther denied a kill, fingers twitching at her sides.
And then?—
She laughs.
It’s not a sane laugh .
It rips from her chest, full-bodied, manic, echoing off the broken walls.
I feel it hit me like a shockwave.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
Feral.
She tilts her head back, mouth curled into a feral grin that should terrify normal men.
It makes blood rush to my cock.
No fear. No hesitation. Just pure, ruthless instinct.
God, she’s perfectly imperfect.
The laughter cuts off, sharp and sudden.
Silence crashes into the room.
She stills.
Then, slow and predatory, her gaze sweeps the darkness.
Searching.
Sensing.
For a heartbeat, it feels like she sees me. Like she smells me in the dark.
Wants me.
“Oh, Lover Boy…” she purrs, voice low and teasing, a blade honed with blood.
“Did you finally decide to join the game?”
A step forward.
Predator meeting predator.
“Hope you’re ready to lose.”
My blood thrums at the challenge.
“You know,” she muses, weaving through the room like she’s been here a million times, “this is starting to feel a little too horror movie cliché.”
Her fingers skim over Carter’s discarded mess—half-drunk whiskey bottles, a knocked-over chair, a laptop I already gutted for parts.
“Final girl creeping through the dark… the killer watching from the shadows…” She pauses, dragging a nail across the dust-covered table. “He’s right behind you!”
Silence stretches. Tightens.
Then, she exhales a laugh, light and amused.
“But that’s not our story, is it?”
She moves.
And I watch.
Watch the way her body shifts.
Watch how the dim light catches the curve of her smirk, the wicked gleam in her eye.
Watch—and hunger builds under my skin like fire eating oxygen.
No fear. No hesitation. No fucking apology.
God, she’s a nightmare wrapped in silk.
And I want every piece of her.
“No, no, no…” she murmurs, clicking her tongue. “We’re something else entirely.”
She spins, slow, savoring.
“No final girls here. And you?” She angles a smirk into the dark.
“Not some slasher villain with mommy issues, right?”
Then—she stops.
Eyes narrowing.
Head tilts.
Body stills.
And then?—
she finds me.
Not a gasp .
Not a flinch.
Just a slow, creeping smile.
“Oh,” she breathes, stepping closer.
“Peekaboo, Lover Boy.”
She prowls toward me.
Fingers ghost across my chest—featherlight, tracing the edge of my vest.
A single tap against my ribs. Testing. Teasing.
Then her hand drifts upward.
Slow. Unhurried.
The tip of one finger presses against the fabric covering my mouth.
Tracing the shape of my lips through the mask.
A slow drag.
Soft.
Intimate.
Her breath warms the fabric. Her voice slides into me—honey-laced wickedness.
“You always this tense, Lover Boy?”
Tense?
My entire body’s a live wire strung too tight.
She shifts—pressing against me just enough to make sure I feel her heat, her curve, the sly dare in every inch of her body.
Fuck.
My heart slams against my ribs.
Loud.
Thunderous.
She tilts her head, considering me like she’s trying to decide which part she wants to break first.
“Come on, Lover Boy,” she murmurs, her breath brushing my mask.
“Take what you want.”
I move.
One second, she’s crowding my space—teasing, taunting, testing.
Pushing. Always fucking pushing.
The next—she’s slammed against the cold stone wall.
My hand catches her wrists, pinning them high above her head.
My other hand wraps around her throat—not to hurt.
To hold. Tightly.
Her body presses into mine, soft and unyielding.
I feel her breath hitch—not fear.
Something darker.
Something answering the black hunger inside me.
My grip tightens.
Jaw clenched.
Teeth grinding.
“You really wanna keep pushing?” I growl against her ear.
A slow blink.
Then—her lips curl into something wicked.
“If this is the response I get?”
A breathy laugh, dark and daring.
“Most definitely.”
Fucking hell.
She shifts against me, slow and deliberate.
Her legs wrap around my waist.
Her hips grind against my cock—just enough to short-circuit every rational thought I have left.
Her pulse flutters against my palm.
Fast. Thrilled. Alive.
She fucking loves this.
My breath sharpens.
My muscles coil, a live wire ready to snap.
I should let go.
I should step back.
But I don’t.
Instead, I lean in—pressing her harder against the wall.
Grinding into her with brutal, punishing force.
My voice drops, low and dark and inevitable.
“Next time,” I rasp against her skin,
“I won’t stop.”
Her laugh is soft.
Breathless.
Dangerous.
She tilts her head back against the wall, exposing more of her throat beneath my grip.
“Who says I want you to?”
Fuck.
My fingers twitch, tightening just enough to feel her breath stutter against my palm.
The urge to claim her?—
to take her?—
to mark her right here?—
crushes against every line of control I have left.
But she moves first.
A sharp twist.
A shift of weight.
I feel the break before I react—my balance tipping, my grip slipping.
She tears free, shoving me back a step.
Not because she has to .
Because she can.
She’s laughing—breathless, exhilarated—as she takes a step back.
Then another.
And another.
Grinning like she owns the night.
“See ya around, Lover Boy.”
Then, softer—teasing—a whispered promise:
“Maybe next time you’ll be able to hang on to me a little longer.”
She blows me a kiss.
And she’s gone.
Disappears with a flicker of movement, a ghost slipping into the dark.
Her voice drifts back—singing.
Always fucking singing.
“...I get knocked down… but I get up again… you’re never gonna keep me down…”
I stand there.
Pulse thundering.
Cock throbbing.
Fists clenching at my sides.
I should chase her.
Drag her back.
Pin her to the fucking floor and show her exactly who she’s playing with.
But I don’t.
I let her go.
For now.
Her scent lingers—making my cock pulse harder.
My fingers twitch.
Next time.
Next time she won’t be walking away smiling.
My jaw locks.
My blood seethes.
I suck in a breath through my teeth and let it out slow.
“You want to play, little demon? Fine. Let’s see if you’re still laughing with my cock down your throat.”