Naomi #4
The body lies before me, still and pale, the life long since drained from her.
The blood pools around her like a crimson halo, soaking into the once-pristine white of her ceremonial gown.
My hands, slick with her warmth, tremble as I grip the ritual blade tighter.
The God’s voice thrums in my head, deep and resonant, a command I cannot disobey.
“Mark her,” it growls. “Seal your devotion in flesh.”
I don’t hesitate when he releases my limbs—not because I want to obey, but because my body doesn’t feel like my own.
But I know this is my choice, it has to be.
The blade moves before I can stop it, the sharp tip dragging across her cold skin in a delicate, deliberate line.
My breathing grows shallow as I watch the blade sink in, the flesh parting beneath it with an ease that feels obscene.
The first cut is tentative, a clean stroke across her collarbone.
But our God is not satisfied with hesitation.
My muscles tighten again, my fingers digging into the hilt as the next cut digs deeper.
The resistance of skin and muscle beneath the blade sends a shiver up my spine, the sensation both grotesque and… intimate.
“Do not falter,” our God warns. Its voice vibrates in my skull, and my vision blurs further. “Your hesitation is weakness. Weakness has no place in my domain.”
I carve slower now, more deliberate. The design begins to take shape—a sigil of twisting lines and jagged edges that speaks to power, dominance, and utter submission to something greater than myself. The blood wells up in the grooves I’ve made, trickling down her chest like tears from the wound.
She looks fragile like this, almost peaceful, and for a moment, guilt slams into me like a hammer. I pause, my jaw clenching. “This is madness,” I whisper, though I know The God hears every word.
“Madness?” The God’s laugh is a dark, guttural sound that sends ice through my veins. “No, my child. This is liberation.”
My hand moves again, faster now, the sigil nearing completion. The blade slips once, too deep, and I feel the edge of panic rise in me as more blood pours from the mistake. I don’t want to ruin her—no, that’s not it. I don’t want to displease our God.
When the final line is drawn, I drop the blade, the clang of metal against stone echoing in the chamber. The sigil pulses with an unnatural movement. My heart races as I realize the mark is alive, shifting and moving beneath her skin as though The God itself has claimed her body as its own.
“Beautiful,” The God purrs, its voice wrapping around me like silk and chains. “You mine now, Maximilien. Blood for blood. Flesh for power.”
My chest tightens as I stagger back, the reality of what I’ve done crashing over me. The room feels colder, the air heavy with the scent of iron and death. Her body lies before me, desecrated, a canvas for my sin.
The God’s voice softens, almost soothing, as if to reward me. “My son… wear her mark. Take her flesh and bind it to your own. You are incomplete without it.”
I stare down at the sigil, my hands trembling as The God’s command takes hold of me. The next step is clear, and it’s more horrific than what I’ve done. But the blade lies at my feet, waiting.
Some small part of me, the part that still remembers what it means to be human, screams for me to stop, but I don’t, I can’t.
The blade feels heavier in my hand when I pick it up again, slick with blood and trembling in my grip. I hesitate, my gaze fixed on the sigil that writhes beneath her skin. My stomach churns, and bile rises in my throat.
When I finish, the sigil is no longer part of her, a jagged, bloody patch of flesh, the lines of the brand still faintly pulsing with some unholy energy.
“Now,” The God whispers, almost lovingly. “Bind it to your own. Let her sacrifice make you whole.”
My breath catches as I look at the flesh in my hands. “You want me to…?”
The God doesn’t answer with words, but the overwhelming pressure in my chest tells me enough. I press the carved flesh to my own chest, over my heart, the blood slick against my skin. It’s still warm, and the sensation sends a shiver through me, revulsion battling with The God’s intoxicating power.
Daggers of pain shoot through me like electricity, searing through my body as the sigil fuses to my skin.
I cry out, dropping the blade and clutching at my chest as the flesh melds into me.
The pain is unbearable, my vision is swimming with black spots, and my body is trembling with the effort to stay upright.
I fall to my knees, gasping for air, as the sigil’s burn intensifies, spreading across my skin like veins of molten lava. It’s so intense I can’t even scream; no sound leaves me.
The God’s voice is louder now, triumphant. “Your soul is mine to keep, forever and always.”
The pain begins to subside, leaving behind a throbbing warmth where the sigil now resides, etched into my chest as though it had always been there. I look down, my hands still stained with her blood, and see the mark pulsing faintly, a part of me now.
The room is silent except for my ragged breathing. I stare at her body, desecrated and hollow, and feel the weight of what I’ve done settle over me.
But beneath the guilt, beneath the horror, there is something else. A spark of power, dark and consuming, thrumming in time with the sigil on my chest.
I am no longer just a man. I am something more. Something far worse. My eyes start to swim as everything fades to black.
I pull my head away from Max’s, my eyes still closed. Nausea surges through me, twisting my stomach into knots.
What the fuck did he just say?
My Brother. My Protector. My Anchor.
My whole life, Max was the voice of reason, the calm to all of our storms. And now—he kneels before me, telling me he’s a murderer.
My mind scrambles to comprehend his words, my world shattered into a million irreparable pieces.
Slowly, I open my eyes to Christian, who’s staring at me as if Max had just confessed to losing a few dollars, not the murder of a young girl.
And all at once the realization hit me, this place, these people—they are all the same.
Murderers.
Annihilators.
Enders of innocence.
Disgust rises in me like bile. How can they both stand here, so composed, while my sanity crumbles?
My vision is like a kaleidoscope—verse after verse of betrayal, anger, and shame rushes through me, hot and deep. Everything fractures. The chandelier above him, the gold trim on the ceiling, even Max’s voice dulling like some cruel, ghosted echo—it all twists and warps until I can’t see straight.
I can’t breathe.
My legs buckle when I stand, stumbling backward, hand flying out to catch the doorframe, but it’s not enough.
My body moves before my brain catches up, legs wobbling, knees on the verge of collapse under the weight of this goddamn truth.
This awful, choking thing he just threw at me like some twisted testimony on an altar of rot and decay—like I’m supposed to thank him for ripping my reality in half.
“I’m going to be sick.” The words tumble out in a strangled whisper.
I stagger from the room, tears blurring my vision.
The air feels too thick, too suffocating, and my feet move blindly, desperate to escape.
My heels click too loudly against the marble floors, echoing as if my shame wants the whole world to hear it.
The corridor stretches in front of me, long and cold, and suddenly every painting on the wall feels like it’s watching me.
Like they’re judging me for not seeing it sooner.
Hot tears blur everything. My lashes burn, but I blink furiously, refusing to let them fall. I can’t see where I’m going. I just need out. I need space. I need a silence that isn’t filled with his voice trying to sell me lies wrapped in that stupid line— “You have to try to understand.”
The air here feels heavy, too full, like sins, ghosts, and old damnation. My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to break free, like it can’t stand being inside this body anymore. I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady my breath.
brEATHE.
brEATHE.
FUCKING brEATHE, NAOMI.
But I keep running as if the demons of my legacy have come to collect, and I need to outrun them.
I barely register the impact as my body collides with something solid—broad, unyielding, and warm. My fingers clutch at it instinctively, like a drowning soul clinging to salvation. Cool fingers trail along my spine, their touch unnervingly gentle, calming the storm inside me.
My breath shudders as I lift my gaze. Gold-flecked green eyes lock onto mine, piercing and all-consuming. Heat rushes through my body at the vague feeling of safety, something reminiscent of home. It’s the same feeling I get with Nyx and Jaxon. But I’m too overwhelmed to run away from it this time.
All I can think of when I stare into those warm, forest green eyes is how they seem to reach past everything I’ve ever been, everything I am, and everything I’ve ever known.
It’s like they know me—really know me—like they’ve seen every corner of my soul in lifetimes I can’t remember, but that’s not possible.
They burn with a heat that feels ancient, familiar, pulling at threads I didn’t even know existed in me.
The intensity of it terrifies me, but it’s the same thing that keeps me rooted to my spot, unable to look away.
My chest tightens as a sense of longing and inevitability courses through me, drowning out every other thought.
And before I can stop myself, my voice breaks free, soft, trembling, and filled with something I don’t quite understand.
“Where did you come from?”