18. Wraith
Chapter 18
Wraith
N ight folds over the warehouse faster every night.
Wind howls, scraping at the siding.
Screens flicker in the dark—a constant pulse of static.
I lean back, fingers laced behind my head, watching her from this morning again.
I used to watch her because I wanted to catch it.
That moment when the world finally caught up with her.
When the softness would crack, and I’d get to see what she really was underneath.
Now I watch because I’m fucking starving for it.
Every twitch of her fingers. Every sway of her hair.
Feeding something that’s already too big to kill.
Feeding me.
She pours hot water over tea into a chipped mug, steam curling up like breath against her soft cheek.
Wraps the thick cardigan tighter around herself, sleeves swallowing her hands .
She pushes a spill of warm, dark hair behind her ear without thinking. Sparks of hidden gold catch in the low light.
Moving through her little apartment, refusing to acknowledge that the world would eat her alive given the chance.
A chance I refuse to let it have.
I watch her because I have to.
Because there is no looking away.
Not anymore.
I’m a man worshipping his own destruction.
I thought I wanted her to meet her ruin.
Shatter her softness to fit the world. To be like the rest of us broken souls.
Now?
I still want to ruin her. Break her. Destroy her.
But I want to be the only one who ever does.
The only one who gets to see her like that.
The only one she truly sees.
Not to crush her until she no longer exists.
No. To rebuild her.
Keep her. Protect her. Claim her.
The need took root a while ago and began to grow, twisting something deep in my chest.
She quiets the chaos. Eases the darkness.
And somehow makes it worse at the same time.
Because the longer I watch her, the more certain I become?—
There’s no way in hell I’ll ever let the world have her.
She’s only for me.
She’s mine.
Click .
I stiffen.
The low, unmistakable thud of my fridge door shutting yanks me upright.
A hiss.
A soda can cracking open.
No fucking way.
I move fast—silent.
Step into the main room just in time to see her—barefoot, blood-slick, and chugging the last cold soda from my stash like she owns the place.
She tips her head back, swallowing deep.
A streak of blood stains her jaw. The red browning, stark against the white paint below.
She catches me staring, and glares at me over the rim of the can.
“Your cherry cola tastes like disappointment,” she says.
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
Because there’s a trail of red leading from the door to her bare fucking feet.
No shoes.
No awareness.
Just a goddamn bloodbath on my concrete floor.
And her.
Standing in the middle of it.
Comfortable. Like she’s home.
She lowers the can, licks her lips, and plants herself in the center of my hideout like she’s been here a million times.
“Do you know what really pisses me off?” she snaps, pacing now—sharp, angry steps, leaving crimson footprints behind her.
I say nothing.
Let her rant.
“Some assholes just don’t know how to die quietly.”
She slams the can onto the table—soda sloshing out the top—and starts ticking off her grievances on bloody fingers.
“One guy. One easy kill. That’s all it was supposed to be.”
She smears her forearm across her face, leaving a fresh streak of blood on her cheek while wiping away the paint.
“But nooo. He’s got friends. Three of them. Sitting around, laughing. Like they weren’t all about to die. The fucking audacity.”
She spins to face me, wild-eyed.
“Oh! And one of them—he thought he was gonna run! Can you believe it? Run.”
I cross my arms. Lean back against the wall. Watch her.
“I had to tackle him, Wraith. Tackle him. Like some D-list linebacker in a horror movie.”
She shoves her hands out—palms up, caked in red and scraped all to hell.
“Now I’ve got brains on my boots,” she looks down at her bare feet, “Well—had—and?—”
“Where are your boots?”
“What? Oh. I tossed them. But excuse you, I’m talking. Don’t be rude. As I was saying, I had teeth in my fucking arm?—”
She jerks her sleeve up, revealing a ragged bite mark.
“—and still had to carry all three bodies back inside so your little digital playground didn’t get torched.”
She flops onto my couch, sprawling—probably smearing blood all over it—and takes another swig of my last soda.
My last fucking soda .
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
I don’t move.
Don’t blink.
Because what the actual fuck is this woman?—
I raise a brow.
Cross back to my chair—might as well be comfortable.
She fills the space with noise.
A never ending diatribe of inconvenient death.
She hops up from the couch. Yup. Fucking blood all over it.
“Ugh, seriously? Not even a teensie thank you?”
Walks over to me and then perches on the edge of my desk, swinging her legs like a goddamn menace.
Still sipping on my last goddamn soda.
“For what?” I ask, glaring at the can in her hand.
“Some fixer from the Dockyards,” she says, tapping the soda can against her chin, leaving white spots from her face paint behind.
“Name was Royce something. Didn’t catch the last name. Didn’t matter.”
I arch a brow. Again.
The Dockyards are Voss territory.
But I’ve never heard of a Royce.
“He wasn’t on my radar,” I say.
She leans backward resting on one hand, grinning at the ceiling like she just won something.
“Yeah, I figured. That’s why I followed him.”
Her tone’s too light.
Her fingers twitch against the can.
I watch her.
Every movement.
Every breath.
“Kept seeing his name pop up on partial data logs,” she says. “Weird shit. Not transport. Not security. But clearance? Full access.”
She lifts her head, grins at me.
“Turns out, he’s a cleaner,” she sings. “Digital kind. Deletes problems.”
A muscle ticks in my jaw.
Not because she’s lying.
But because she’s likely right.
If Royce was scrubbing files for Voss?—
He was hidden well.
Means they know I’m closing in.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” she adds, sing-song. “For the second time.”
Waves a hand toward the blood on the floor.
“Saved your precious little Voss folder from going up in smoke.”
“What folder?”
She grins wider—sharp, knowing—and tosses something at me.
I catch it.
A thumb drive.
Still sticky with blood.
I stare at it.
Then her.
Her eyes glitter like broken glass.
“Go on, Lover Boy. I didn’t break into your clubhouse just to steal your soda.”
I shove the drive into the nearest port.
Screens flicker.
Files spill open.
Rows of redacted names.
Hidden bank accounts.
Transfer schedules.
Schematics for facilities I didn’t know existed.
One sounds familiar.
It’s all fucking gold.
My fingers tighten on the edge of the desk.
She watches me like she already knows what I’m seeing.
Smirks.
Stretches.
Satisfied.
“So,” she purrs, “still mad I drank your last soda?”
I should thank her.
Instead—
All I see is her.
The way her face twisted in pleasure while she rode me like she wanted to break me in half.
“You always break into people’s homes covered in blood and help yourself to their fridge?” I ask, trying to shake the image from my memory. The same one she’s failed to comment on.
“Only if they deserve it.”
She flashes teeth.
I move.
Controlled.
Predatory.
I cage her against the desk—hands braced on either side of her body. Standing between her legs.
Close enough to breathe her in.
Close enough to feel the pulse hammering under her skin .
“You seriously not gonna acknowledge it?” I murmur.
She bats her lashes—fake innocence stretched across a bloody face.
“Acknowledge what?”
I lean closer.
“Our little face-to-cunt bonding moment.”
A breath.
A beat.
She gasps—over-the-top theatrical—and clutches her chest.
“Wraith,” she whispers, “are you… sentimental?”
I huff a dark laugh.
Drag a hand down my face like she a fucking migraine.
One I can’t medicate.
She sure as shit is.
The worst fucking headache I’ve ever had.
And the only one I don’t want cured.
The silence hums between us.
Heavy. Unforgiving.
I break it first.
Voice low. Rough.
“Why bring that here?”
I nod at the bloody thumb drive still plugged into my system.
“You could’ve used it yourself.”
She shrugs.
Stretches like a cat, lazy and smug.
“Could’ve.”
Another pop of her shoulder.
“But then I’d miss out on all this lovely foreplay.”
I don’t smile .
But something flickers behind my eyes.
Dangerous.
Dark.
She watches me.
Knows exactly what she’s poking.
“Besides…”
Her tone shifts.
Sharper now.
“You’re better logistically. I’m better unhinged. We can burn him faster together.”
She means Voss.
Our enemy.
I study her.
Long.
Hard.
Every instinct howls not to trust her.
To cut this off before it costs me my life’s mission.
But instinct doesn’t mean shit anymore.
Not with her.
I nod once.
Sharp. Decisive.
“Fine. We team up.”
Her smile cuts deeper.
Almost predatory.
“But I want a name.”
Her head tilts.
Mocking.
Testing.
“A name, huh?”
She slides off the desk, slow and deliberate .
I don’t move.
Don’t flinch.
She steps into my space.
Close enough I can smell the blood drying on her skin.
The smoke of violence still clinging to her hair.
She looks up at me through those painted lashes.
“You don’t like your girls mysterious?”
“I want to know,” I growl, “what name should be falling from my lips when I’m balls deep inside you—filling your cunt with my come.”
That stops her.
Breath hitching.
Pulse flickering at her throat.
Her smile warps into something darker.
Like she’s been waiting for this version of me.
She leans up—mouth brushing my ear.
Voice a velvet drag of teeth and threat.
“Nerium.”
A beat.
A smirk I feel against my skin.
“But you can call me Neri…”
Her breath ghosts my jaw.
“If you’re still breathing by the end.”
My jaw tightens.
Nerium.
Huh.
Go figure.
It’s perfect.
Fitting.
I don’t respond.
I don’t need to.
Because I know she wants to break me .
And she probably will.
But not without a fight.
Neri perches on the desk’s edge, one boot kicking idly against the metal.
Blood dries in jagged streaks down her arms, flaking when she moves.
Her fingers drum a broken rhythm on the soda can, sharp little taps like a song only she can hear.
Grinning like a cat that’s already caught the mouse?—
it just doesn’t know it yet.
“Soooo…” she drawls, dragging the word out like it’s a secret.
“Now that we’re partners—how about a little team building?”
My brows lift.
She’s fucking lost the plot.
“What?” I deadpan.
“You want to trust fall over a pile of corpses?”
Her grin flares.
“God, yes. But first—field trip.”
She hops down.
Starts pacing.
All manic energy and thinly leashed violence.
“I didn’t exactly finish my little Dockyard detour,” she says, spinning on her bare heel like the rough floor is a stage.
Honestly, what isn’t a stage to her.
“Had to leave early. You know… public screaming, some asshole almost bleeding out on Main Street. The usual.”
She flashes me a grin sharp enough to gut a man .
Fucking hell.
“Figured we could tie up some loose ends together. You’re good at clean-up, right?”
I don’t answer.
I just watch her.
All that chaos wrapped in denim, leather, and bloodstains.
She cocks her head. Waiting. Daring me.
I grab my gear.
No hesitation.
No plan.
Just instinct.
“You need some fucking shoes.”
The Dockyard warehouse is dead.
Still.
Reeking of copper, death, and spilled guts.
Blood coats the concrete in long, ugly smears.
The air stinks like old meat and desperation.
I move first.
Tablet in hand.
Heat signatures flashing in infrared.
There—
Tucked behind a broken shelf, trying to play dead.
“You left one breathing,” I mutter without looking up.
Beside me, Neri huffs.
“Well,” she says, casual as a shrug, “he shouldn’t have been so good at hiding.”
Her voice is pure fucking sunshine—the kind that burns.
“What a little bitch.”
We move together .
Me—clearing the perimeter. Silent. Clinical.
Already calculating how to erase this place like it never existed.
Fire, more than likely. The whole place is a blood-soaked mess.
Neri—stalking the shadows with a finger to her lips like she’s Elmer Fudd’s bloody fever dream.
Her new boots squish wetly in a puddle.
She grins.
“Oops.”
As if it wasn’t on purpose.
The survivor tries to crawl deeper under the shelf.
Doesn’t matter.
Neri gets there first.
She drags him out by the ankle, ignoring his screaming, and swings a rusted wrench in one clean arc.
Crunch.
The sound echoes off the walls.
Wet. Final.
Blood spatters across her cheek like confetti.
She laughs as he goes still.
Not forced.
Not hysterical.
Just—delighted.
I watch her.
Not horrified.
Not shocked.
Just aware.
Aware that this girl—this nightmare in ripped jeans and smeared face paint—might be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever wanted.
Outside, the night leans heavy against the dock.
Salt air.
Rotten wood and the faint tang of blood clinging to our skin.
Neri stretches like she just finished a yoga class instead of a murder spree.
Arms overhead. Back arched.
Blood dries in streaks across her throat, red-stained paint cracking at her jaw.
The face paint is a mess now.
Wild. Smudged. Barely human.
She bumps her elbow against mine.
“Well?” she chirps.
Bright. Mocking. Fucking gorgeous.
“How’s that for a bonding exercise?”
I don’t answer.
I’m too busy staring at her hands.
Bruised.
Scraped.
Bloodied.
Still trembling with the aftershocks of violence.
“You scare the shit out of me,” I say.
She pirouettes on the damp wood, laughing like the world’s already burned and she’s the only one who got the joke.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she sing-songs.
A pause.
She glances back at me over her shoulder.
Eyes gleaming like the devil dressed in glitter.
And smiles.
Wide. Sharp .
Beautiful and doomed.
“But don’t fall in love with me, Wraith. Only one of us will survive it.”
I say nothing.
I just follow.
Her voice drifts back through the dark.
Singing. I’m not surprised.
Off-key. Offbeat. Perfectly fucking imperfect.
“You’re just too good to be true… can’t take my eyes off of you…”
Like the goddamn idiot I am?—
I follow her into the darkness.