Entwined

Whispers of the Damned

I know I shouldn't be this obvious, but if there's one thing I hate, it's people undermining my intelligence—fuck that—undermining my genius.

The second that satanic veil lifted, revealing this bastard Edward, his eyes darted around the gothic cabaret, scanning the room. I knew exactly who he'd choose before he even landed on her.

I'd sell my soul to Satan right now if it would stop this. My jaw clenches, a sharp pain shooting through me like a warning. I've begged every god, sold out every good deed. I'd pray five times a day, sit through every fucking Sunday mass, observe the Shabbat like a zealot. I'd do whatever it takes. Meditate on Waheguru's name, reach some higher spiritual bullshit—I don't care. I'd do anything to stop him.

His eyes circle back to his center of interest. My wolfie.

My. Fucking. Wolfie.

He points at her with a forefinger I'd gladly chop off, grind into a patty, and feed to the filthiest rat.

"You. My black cat, or should I say black panther?" Edward fucking says.

Wolfie shifts next to me, shy. I know she's intrigued. Wet as fuck. She's a hoe for this eerie shit. Always has been.

"Come," his voice echoes, strong despite the absence of a mic. This ancient castle carries every syllable, feeding his ego.

She hesitates, glancing at me. My eyes? They're stabbing him. I've already dismembered him in my head—ripped him apart, piece by bloody piece. After I burn every inch of his skin with an iron, I'll take his crusty flesh and savor the stench. Squeeze his brain like soft butter, ping-pong his heart, use his intestines as a fucking jump rope.

"Silas," she calls, but her voice is distant. I'm too far gone, consumed by the storm of rage thundering inside me.

I didn't even notice I was biting my knuckles until Wolfie pulls my hand away.

"Are you okay?" she whispers, her voice soft against the dark, as the chandelier above us casts faint strands of light.

Then the door opens. A man dressed in black enters. "You are requested at the stage, Madame," he says, ignoring me entirely.

She looks back at me, searching for permission. I nod.

"Go. He's a dead man anyway," I think to myself.

I've seen his shit before. Been to his shows. He's got a real connection with the other side. But tonight, something shifts. A coldness settles over me like death's breath. For the first time in my life, I feel it.

Fear.

It grips my throat, squeezing. I reach for my neck, trying to rub away the anxiety clawing at me from the inside.

As Wolfie steps onto the stage, all graceful and teasing, she takes his hand. The corpse I'm about to make of him kisses it, smiling like the smug bastard he is. Forget dismemberment—I'm going to smash him into dough and feed him to the fucking crows.

"Ladies and gentlemen, my black panther is here," Edward announces. Wolfie smiles, her eyes darting to mine. I force a smile back.

He cups her cheeks, turning her face to his. "Look at me, black panther. Look into my eyes. Focus on your reflection in my iris. When you see it, nod." His voice, soft like a snake's hiss, slithers into the air.

Wolfie nods after a moment, lost in his gaze. Swimming in those black eyes.

"Now, focus until you lose yourself. Until you can't see your reflection. Until all you see is the darkness of my soul."