Deadly Devotion

They were never meant to be soft.

After everything that happened-the blood, the betrayal, the quiet fractures no one else could see-Wednesday Addams and Enid Sinclair are left circling each other in the aftermath. Not together, not apart. Just... tethered.

At Nevermore, nothing feels the same. Enid laughs a little louder, smiles a little wider, as if she can outrun what's already caught up to her. Wednesday watches from a distance, sharp-eyed and unraveling, haunted by the one moment she can't dissect: when everything between them stopped being a game.

Possessiveness creeps in where logic should be. Jealousy coils tight in Wednesday's chest every time Enid touches someone else, looks at someone else, chooses someone else. And the worst part? She doesn't understand why.

Because Wednesday doesn't do feelings. She doesn't ache. She doesn't want.

So why does losing Enid-when she never even had her-feel like something is rotting beneath her skin?

And how do you fix something that was never meant to be whole in the first place?

In a story where love is sharp, messy, and dangerously unspoken, Deadly Devotion isn't about falling-it's about what happens after.