chapter thirteen
giselle
T he sun’s rising like a guilty smile, all pink and bleeding gold across the tips of the ruined tent. Ash floats through the air like dandruff from the gods, and the ground’s still wet with the leftovers of our little massacre party. A rib over here, some teeth over there. The place looks like a meat market and a funeral made a baby and forgot to clean up after.
And me?
I’m barefoot, covered in dried blood, glitter, and the vague scent of smoke and sweat. I tiptoe through it all like a ballerina in a warzone, skipping over puddles and entrails with a grin stretching my lips like a knife wound.
Because I know where he is.
I always know where he is.
And there he is—just like I pictured. My monster, my executioner, my god.
Bjorn sits at the edge of the altar like it’s his personal throne. Shirtless, bloodstained, tattoos glowing like runes under firelight. There’s a cigarette hanging from his lips, half-burned, and his eyes are the color of reverence and wreckage. One hand rests on his axe, the other’s loose in his lap like he just fought a war and won.
“Morning, sunshine,” I chirp, stepping over what might be someone’s spine. “You look like wrath wrapped in afterglow.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just exhales smoke and watches the sky.
So I climb right into his lap like the good little heathen I am.
“You brooding or basking?” I ask, curling my arms around his shoulders and nuzzling my face into the dried blood on his throat.
His hand settles on my thigh—firm, grounding.
“The gods are full,” he mutters.
“Good,” I purr, tracing lazy patterns along his chest. “’Cause I’m still hungry.”
His fingers twitch and I press a kiss to his jaw.
“We did it, y’know,” I whisper. “Every scream, every offering, every moan—they watched. They listened.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just takes another drag of his cigarette and lets it burn down between us.
“You were perfect,” he says finally, voice low and heavy. “The way you moved. The way you offered him up. I saw the gods in your eyes.”
My grin grows crooked and wicked.
“I felt you watching.”
“I always watch you.”
Something hot coils low in my belly. That same hunger. That same need. Not for death. Not for blood.
For him.
Always him.
“I’ve still got a little fight in me,” I say with a teasing smirk, grinding just slightly against the muscle of his thigh. “Think the gods would mind if I prayed again?”
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
His hand slides between my thighs like it belongs there—because it does. Thick fingers, calloused from a thousand kills, stained with blood and ash. They part me like a priest unveiling an altar. Reverent. Hungry. Made for this.
I whimper, sharp and breathless, spine arching as my hips tilt into his touch. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s worship. His kind of worship—messy and full of violence and devotion.
“Say it,” he growls, his voice low and wrecked beside my ear, smoke curling between us like a second mouth whispering sin.
“My god,” I breathe. “Yours. Always yours.”
His fingers drag slow through the slickness he’s already made of me, teasing at the edge of where I need him most. He circles lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world to ruin me properly. Like he enjoys watching me shake for it.
And gods, I do.
“You’re soaked,” he mutters. “Still trembling. They’d all watch you fall apart for me if I let them.”
I bite my lip and nod, eyes fluttering shut. “Let ‘em. Let the gods see what you do to me.”
Two fingers slide inside, thick and sure, curling just right. I jerk forward with a gasp, clutching at his shoulders like a sinner gripping the edge of a cliff.
“Fuck—Bjorn?—”
His name leaves my mouth like a plea and a prayer, and he rewards me with a grunt, pressing his palm firm against me while he works me open, deeper, rougher, slower.
“Gonna say my name like it’s sacred?” he asks, dragging his mouth along my jaw.
“It is,” I pant. “It fucking is.”
My breath stutters. My legs shake. I’m pinned in his lap, straddling a monster in human skin who treats my body like scripture. Like gospel. Every motion is a sermon, every thrust of his fingers another reason to believe.
“You’re close,” he says, lips brushing my temple. “I feel you tightening. Like you’re trying to pull me into your bones.”
“Because I want to,” I whisper, nails digging into his back. “I want you inside every part of me.”
“Good girl,” he growls, the words thick with pride. “Then give it to me. Come for your god.”
My body obeys.
It isn’t a scream—it’s a sob, a surrender. My whole body locks then shudders violently, hips twitching, chest heaving. I fall into him, letting him hold me, ground me, claim me. His free hand cradles the back of my head as I ride it out, shaking in his arms like the last hymn of the night.
He doesn’t pull away.
He waits. Patient. Proud. Until my breathing slows and my eyes flutter half-shut in blissful ruin.
Then—slowly, deliberately—he withdraws his fingers and lifts them to his lips.
One by one, he licks them clean. No hurry. No shame. Just dark, greedy satisfaction.
“Divine,” he murmurs.
I collapse against him with a wheezy laugh, legs still twitching.
“Holy fuck,” I breathe. “I’m gonna need a nap and a new pair of thighs.”
His chest rumbles with something close to a laugh. I don’t hear it so much as feel it, the vibration under my cheek where I’ve curled against him like a cat that found fire and decided to love it anyway.
And for a moment—just a moment—we’re still. Covered in blood. Surrounded by death. But safe. Anchored in each other like we’ve both found home at the center of the storm.
He hums.
And then?—
Footsteps.
Wet, squelching, too-light-for-comfort footsteps.
“Well, well, well,” Johnny sings. “Look who’s getting in one last round of worship.”
We turn as he saunters into view, shirtless and grinning, dragging something grotesque behind him like it’s his latest toy. A ribcage. Still bloody. Still twitching.
“For you, my queen of carnage,” he says, tossing it like a bouquet at my feet.
“Aww, Johnny,” I coo. “You shouldn’t have. No, really. You shouldn’t have. Where the fuck did you get this?”
“Off a guest who just couldn’t keep his organs to himself.”
Alaska appears behind him, on two legs now, hair a mess, face wild. She’s holding what looks like intestines wrapped like a scarf.
“Best night ever!” she yells.
“I know, baby,” Johnny croons, petting her head. “You did so good.”
Bjorn growls softly beside me, but not in anger. It’s that low, content sound he makes when the world’s burning just right.
Indie and Lux arrive next. She’s got blood streaked across her jaw, a whip coiled at her hip, her leather corset half-undone. Lux has one arm slung around her, watching us like a king satisfied with his ruined court.
“Looks like the gods feasted,” Indie says with a smirk.
“They fucking better have,” I mutter, still catching my breath.
Johnny leans in toward Bjorn.
“Be honest—do they ever get tired of blood? Or do they just keep snacking like it’s a buffet?”
“They don’t tire,” Bjorn says, grave as always.
“But do they… you know, come?” Johnny grins.
Bjorn’s glare could peel skin.
“Don’t mock the gods.”
“Oh, baby, I’m not mocking. I’m just wondering if they got off as hard as she did.” He gestures to me and I wave.
Everyone laughs. Even Alaska.
But Bjorn?
He just wraps his arms tighter around me. His little death.
And for one fleeting, blood-drenched moment—I swear the gods laugh with us.