Chapter 12 Daxton
Adeep, seething anger rots in the pit of my chest as I hear her thoughts—her mind runs through scenes of bloody depravity and an array of things people might think.
‘What kind of vengeful creature have I become?’
“Don’t.” The word rips from my throat like a blade as her thoughts crystallize—I can taste her fear before she even moves. And of course she bolts, a blur of terror and adrenaline, her blood-soaked silhouette vanishing into the night.
“Perfect. Fucking. Perfect.” Each punctuated syllable hums through clenched teeth that ache to tear into flesh. I seize her flickering essence in my mind’s grip, wrapping her in shadows so thick that not even the Gods could spot the blood-drenched woman dashing across campus.
I obliterate all evidence with methodical fury.
Their bodies won’t be found in one piece—I’ll make damn sure of that.
Rending flesh from bone, I hurl viscera across Indonesian jungles, burying severed limbs deep in the suffocating heat of the Sahara, atomizing every crimson droplet across all fifty states.
I scour the scene with eyes that miss nothing, erasing their existence so completely it’s as if reality itself rejected them.
Every paper slams back into position on Gavin’s desk. Every picture frame is aligned with mathematical precision. Perfect. Immaculate. Untouched.
And somehow, I still beat her back to her dorm.
I lounge against the wall outside her bedroom door, back pressed flat to the stone, one boot kicked up behind me, casually, as if fury doesn’t blind me.
My eyes track her every move as she walks, and I catch the way she flicks a glance toward me as if she can’t help it, even as she tries to ignore me.
Even as she forces her key in the lock, she can’t help but flash a glance in my direction, the allure of death mingles with survivor’s guilt that makes her wonder, what if…
A slow grin stretches across my lips, daring her to step into the abyss that is our fate, daring her to wonder just what would happen if she let go of all of her fears.
“You can’t dodge death, you know.” My voice echoes in the empty hallway behind her.
“I can try.” She turns the brass key with enough force to snap it, shoving the weathered oak door open with her shoulder.
But I’m already sprawled across her unmade bed, the glossy pages of Cosmopolitan splayed between my pale fingers. My eyes flick up to meet hers when she crosses the threshold.
“Jesus Christ!” Her hand flies to the center of her chest, fingernails digging into her sternum. Her pupils dilate with primal fear as she whips around to stare at the empty doorway where I stood just a heartbeat ago. “H-how the fuck?”
“We have been over this several times. Must we go over it again?” I cock a single eyebrow, returning my attention to the magazine’s garish pink headline, Seven Ways to Get the Guy.
“Why do you mortals overcomplicate everything? And why are women always the ones on such desperate hunts, trying to change themselves for men who are subpar?”
“All you have left to say is”—she hunches her shoulders, transforming her voice into a crone's rasp while wagging a finger in perfect mimicry of time's ravages—“back in my day, we didn't do things that way.” She stalks across the floor, snatching the magazine from my hand and throwing it onto her cluttered desk.
Her dorm room feels plucked from a dream—soft golden light pooling beneath strings of fairy bulbs, casting dancing shadows across the pastel walls. A haze of warm air carries the faint scent of sage and old paper.
Her desk is a riot of splayed notebooks, half-inked page margins curling like autumn leaves, words messy as if she’d written them quickly before the thought could fly out of her mind.
Family snapshots perch amid the chaos—smiling faces in sunlit parks, a woman’s hand on her shoulder—a silent anchor grounding this whirlwind. No one resides here other than her. Every shelf, every crooked Polaroid, every discarded sock is an echo of pineapple, mint, and smoked sage, uniquely her.
I clear my throat. “Oh, hardy, har,” I say, rising until our eyes meet—pale crashing into her obsidian voids.
She starts to back away. But I close the distance, one hand brushing loose strands of midnight hair from her eyes, the other settling on her waist. She trembles but doesn’t step further away.
“I may be ancient,” I murmur, voice low enough to vibrate through her bones, “but Mackenzie, I would never let a woman like you doubt my desire for a single moment. I would scour all of Nethra and Terra just to find you.”
Her perfect brow lifts. I feel the quickening of her pulse, the subtle exhale as her body leans into me, as though our forms were carved to nest together. The buzz of fairy lights hums louder in my ears, matching the drum of her heart.
“How do you mortals put it?” I whisper, bending until my breath fans her lips, warm and trembling. “The Underworld and The Mortal Realm?”
“Oh.” Her breath catches, a lump forming in her throat.
“Be mine, belle ame.” My voice is velvet, a promise and a challenge all at once.
Her gaze narrows, fierce and resisting. I feel her soul twist, claws scraping to break free even as her body melts against me. She plants her palm in the hollow of my chest and shoves.
“No,” she spits, voice raw. “You don’t get to appear out of thin air, slaughter my friends, fuck me over their corpses—”
“I didn’t hear you complaining,” I cut in, amused.
She narrows her eyes, fury igniting her cheeks, and I press my lips together to contain myself, as she continues, “And then you ask me…what? To be queen of the Underworld?”
“Actually,” I say, pulling her closer, “that mantle belongs to Persephone. You’d be Lady Death.” I lift her chin with a finger, and her gaze flashes to mine with indignation. “But point taken.” I raise my hands in surrender before letting them fall to my sides.
She rolls her eyes before pulling away from me to trot toward her dresser.
Her hands bunch the hem of her sweater—stained, unmistakably, with blood—before she begins to lift it.
“If you take your clothes off right now,” I murmur, trying to contain the monster wailing just under the surface.
“I will fuck your soul clean out of your body, and this conversation will be null and void.”
“Ughh,” she growls, opening the top drawer to shuffle through it with fury. But the heady tang of her arousal swirls around me like a sweet, dangerous perfume. “I hate you.”
“No.” I saunter across the room, wrapping my arms around her. “You hate that you don’t.” The scent of sage and mint from her hair washes over me like a calming spell. And I am surprised when she shudders but doesn’t pull away.
“As lore has it, Hades seized Persephone from her bed and dragged her to the Underworld, forcing her to become his bride.” My fingertips trace the line of her sternum, her heart drumming under my fingertips as I rock us side to side. “But lores lie. Hades is a gentleman—Persephone came willingly.”
“And if I don’t?” she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper. I rest my forehead against her crown as the fairy lights flicker over our tangled shadows.
“Then I’m not above perpetuating the lore.”
“S-so, what then? You’d just kidnap me?” Her body buzzes at the thought. The Anticipation. The Chase. And most of all, the intense need to be possessed. “I won’t go.”
It's so amusing how easily mortals lie, or instead force themselves to act in opposition to what they truly desire, settling for things that are…“normal.” The fear of the unknown imprisons their minds, making them always choose the road that’s frequently traveled.
“Fine,” I huff, taking a step back, and her body rattles from the loss of my touch. “Help me collect the rest of my souls, and I will leave you be.” She turns to face me, horror etched into her features. “Help me, and I will give you back your life.”
“What are you saying?” she asks, her body trembling—a listless soul held captive in a perfect form that will slowly deteriorate. Tears gleam upon her bloodstained cheeks as she begins to understand. “You want me to help you…kill?”
“As I’ve said, they are already dead.” I can feel the unrest seeping into my cold bones from the way she looks at me as if I’m a monster—the same way Monroe used to look at me. “Do you know what happens when dead souls are trapped in a body for too long?”
“No,” she says, folding her arms across her chest.
That little spark, that fire that still bonds to her soul, will soon extinguish.
She just doesn’t know it, but she might as well be the walking dead.
She will have no zest for life, no passion to write, no taste for food, no will to go outside.
She will not only be emotionally numb, but pain will not exist. Her skin will no longer feel an autumn breeze or a summer’s warmth.
She will be “alive” but not living, rotting away slowly from the inside out.
And the worst part is, she won’t be sure why.
A cruel smile twists my lips. “Of course you don’t.” My voice carries the weight of centuries. “All of your friends have already departed this mortal coil; mourn them. And if you won’t take my deal, then prepare to mourn yourself too.”
“You k-killed Luke?” Her voice cracks like thin ice, eyes glistening with unshed tears. I nod, savoring her pain. “Stormie too?” Another nod, slower this time. “You’re a monster!” The accusation hangs in the air between us.
“I AM MERCIFUL!” I roar. The crystal vase on her windowsill explodes into a thousand glittering shards that catch the moonlight. Her cherished photographs splinter with delicate fractures, spiderwebbing across the glass.
Her pupils dilate with fear as she shrinks away, shoulders hunched protectively.
Tears cascade down her porcelain cheeks, dripping onto the worn hardwood floor.
The sight of her terror douses the inferno of my rage.
I extend a hand toward her, but she scrambles backward until her spine presses against the dresser.
My fingers curl inward, clutching at emptiness before falling limply to my side. “Think about my offer,” I whisper, desperate not to frighten her any further.
The disappointment of her rejection makes my ancient skin contract painfully over my skeletal frame. I glide across the threshold, easing the door closed with barely a whisper of sound.
I’ve never wanted mortals to cower before me, especially not ma belle ame. I could resurrect the life she had with her lover’s last breath—a fair exchange for her own existence. But I crave more than a simple transaction with her.
I need more time with her. I don’t want to let go.
Not yet.