She nods, quiet for a beat, eyes scanning the carnage around us.
One man is being branded with hot iron runes while begging to come. Another is being strung up by his ankles, his thighs slick with blood and candle wax. Someone else moans loud enough to drown out the drums.
“Think they’ll remember us?” Indie asks suddenly.
I grin, teeth bared, dragging my fingers through the blood on my chest like it’s lotion.
“They’ll be dead,” I purr. “But I’m sure they’ll curse us from whatever hell we send them to.”
We stop at the edge of the ring, gazes drawn once again to the mysterious man in the fur pelt.
He’s still watching me, like I’m the only thing in this whole goddamn tent worth seeing. And maybe I am.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hide behind the mask like the rest of them.
He just stares. Calm. Knowing.
Like he’s waiting for something.
Like he’s testing me.
Good. Let him.
Let him watch. Let him wonder. Let him try to understand what kind of creature I really am.
I’ve already spilled enough blood to fill a river tonight. And I’m not done.
Not even close.
So I smile and sway, blades flashing at my hips, and let the tent swallow me again.
He came to watch?
Then he better fucking enjoy the show.
Indie disappears back into the shadows, hips swaying, already sizing up her next victim.
And me?
I stay where I am, dripping and smiling, eyes locked with the stranger wrapped in fur and shadow.
He doesn’t break eye contact. Not for a second.
And neither do I.
chapter four
bjorn
Iwatched her ride him.
Watched her grind, moan and slice him open the second he came, like a goddess sitting on the pulse of a dying world. And gods, I wanted to tear the flesh from my bones just to bury myself inside her.
Ma petite mort. My little death. She is both the salvation and my sin.
Now she’s soaked in blood, glowing like a Valkyrie high on chaos, and I swear by the end of the night I’ll fuck her so deep she’ll be chanting the old gods’ names through split lips and broken breath.
But not yet.
