Page 62 of Wraith

I smiled. “I fixed him.”

Thorne lunged, his fist colliding with my jaw. My head snapped to the side, pain bursting behind my teeth.

I laughed. God, I loved when they fought.

Thorne swung again, but I was ready. I caught his arm, twisting sharply. He hissed in pain, but I didn’t let go. I stepped closer, pressing him against the desk, feeling his pulse hammer beneath my grip.

“You’re making this harder than it has to be,” I murmured. “I just want to make you perfect for her.”

Thorne spat in my face.

I sighed and drove my knee into his stomach. He gasped, doubling over, and I took my chance. My fist connected with his ribs, once, twice, until he sagged against me.

I caught him before he could fall.

Gently. Carefully.

“You’ll thank me,” I promised.

Then I brought the handle of my knife down against his temple, and he went limp in my arms.

He woke up in the theater, just like Aeron had.

Just like he was always meant to.

His breathing was ragged, uneven. He was on his knees in front of me, arms tied behind his back with silk—the same shade of black as Lilith’s dress the night she died.

He lifted his head, dazed. Then his eyes focused, and the horror set in.

He was dressed in a deep charcoal suit, the fabric immaculate, the tie perfectly knotted. He looked beautiful.

I had made sure of it.

“What the fuck,” he choked out, his voice rough.

I smiled and smoothed the lapels of his jacket, adjusting the collar. “You’re perfect now.”

He flinched away from my touch. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

I crouched in front of him, fingers trailing down his cheek in something almost tender. “No, Thorne,” I whispered. “I just understand now. We were always meant to be hers.”

He trembled, and I felt it. The fear. The acceptance. The inevitability sinking in.

I lifted a black ribbon and tied it around his wrist, securing it with a delicate bow. A final gift.

Then, I stepped back, admiring my work.

“You belong here,” I murmured. “With us. With her.”

His lips parted like he wanted to speak, to scream, to beg. But there was no fight left in him.

I lifted the blade, pressing it just under his chin, forcing him to look up at me.

“I’ll make sure you don’t stain your final look,” I promised.

Then I slid the knife across his throat.

Blood bloomed in a slow, elegant spill, dark against the pristine fabric. He sagged against me, shaking, his breath coming in wet, uneven gasps.

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