Page 38 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

Her unraveling is like a wave crashing, a release so powerful it leaves us both breathless. The way she trembles and lets go completely is more beautiful than I ever imagined. Her cry, soft and desperate,fills the space between us, and in that moment, I realize I want nothing more than to be lost in her, to make her feel everything she has given me.

I watch as her eyes flutter, heavy with the pull of sleep, her breathing growing softer, slower, as the world around her fades into quiet. But when I rise to my feet, there’s a subtle shift, a soft plea in the way she whispers,

“please.” It pulls me back to her. A quiet yearning in that one simple word, a desire for the comfort of my presence. Without a second thought, I gather her gently into my arms, feeling the warmth of her pressed against me, and the closeness that makes everything else feel distant.

I lay her carefully in bed, our bodies intertwining with the soft embrace of the sheets. The room is still, save for the gentle sound of our breathing, and in that silence, time seems to stand still. Her head rests against my chest, and I pull her closer, relishing how perfectly she fits in my arms. Everything disappears, and the only thing that matters is her.

Chapter 21

Wild Rose

Whispers in the Blood

“It is your carriage that will spur your coordination, so heed that ladies…”

I make light of Ballet Mistress Anoushka’s words with my mind a bayou of seas away, captured in a past I want to recreate. I’m caught between a night I desire to reminisce and a crestfallen reality.

Behind closed eyes,memories of his touch swam like moths over my head, like a dream coiled in bane. His rough hands were an occult rhapsody that passionately marked every part of my flesh. And with his tongue, he licked and lusted over the taste of my blood. He cut me open for his malign glee, and in baring myself to him, I fed him my tragic lies.

Behind closed eyes,my thumb traces over my lips, remembering the way his felt on mine. The softness, the wetness, and the possessiveness of our kiss felt like a reverie.He was not gentle, but a wild creature that had been left to starve for years. He tasted of sin dipped in the purest of gold. Like he walked through the gates of hell and brought heaven to his knees. He was once among the abode of angels, because under the belligerent edges creeps in wounded bitterness.

Behind closed eyes,his ambrette masculine scent with earthy notes left me in a trance. He oozed the brawniness and astute of a god. He reeked of Thoth’s wisdom and Coeus’ inquisitive mind.

The Sybactus Butcheror the dementedly deranged madman.Non compos mentissome call him, and how strange it is of them. They’ve seen his carnage but never the man himself. They’ve witnessed the massacre with their own eyes and tasted the smell of his victims’ dried blood, but not once have they seen the slaughterer. They have carried the mangled flesh of those killed, yet they haven’t seen the hands dripping their blood.

But I have, and not only did I allow him into my house, but I made him taste my wounds. Predators have a tendency to kill everything they touch, but I’m not his next glorified victim.

Neither am I a martyr. Call meraving mad, call medisturbed and delusional, I won’t plea, I promise. The internal viscous dilemma would be a waste, not when I regret nothing about last night. I could ponder until the vein on my head ludicrously pops, but the same way Sebastian’s mind is like a montage, mine is nothing less. The difference is I’m partially sane, and he is not.

“Your feet must be in third position…”

This town, with all its polished charm and proud prestige, wears a mask of grace over bones steeped in deception.The streets hum with stories too carefully crafted, of truths twisted and secrets stitched deep into the very blood that built these walls. Every brick feels like it carries the echoes of something unsaid, something buried beneath layers of time and lies. And though we chase the idea of answers, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re following shadows, not truths. Sometimes, in the quiet between steps, I wonder if it’s not clarity we’re hunting, but death itself, waiting patiently at the end of this winding path.

Callum is a whole other nauseating plight, a piece in this jumbled barbarity and one I won’t be straying away from. He’s simply a smaller piece in a motley of anarchy .

”Now change to fouette…”

Not everything done in the dark must come to light, the dead know that better.

It’s as if we’re trapped in a maze of horrors, a town where the very walls mourn for the lives that once were. Each stone is soaked with the remembrance of those long gone, and yet the ground beneath our feet never forgets their fall. We walk in the shadows of those lost, bound by the ties of their sorrow, cursed to repeat their struggles. How can a seed take root in soil so poisoned, how can we hope to rise when all that surrounds us is a web of broken dreams and memories that refuse to fade?

A flower, helpless in the grip of a storm, wilts without a second thought. It doesn’t choose the winds that tear it apart, nor the sand that turns sour beneath its roots. And so we too, with every breath, are at the mercy of forces that neither ask for permission nor offer reprieve. My uncle made a choice, one that left scars deeper than any wound could show, his hands stained with the blood of my parents. And in his twisted silence, I made my own choice—to take the soul that tainted my world.

For in a town where the light cannot reach, there is no escape from the darkness. Only vengeance can bring the balance we crave, for the scales of justice tip only when blood stains them anew.

I’m weaving a game, a wheedle he’ll fall into. One that’ll lead my knife against his throat. A blade so sharp it’ll cut too deep.

“Cinquième Position.” Her cane clicks on the floor as her eyes gauge everyone’s posture. I lift both arms and raise them above my head, creating an oval shape as she circles around me in slow strides

“Rise attitude.” She instructs, and I lift my leg and stand on one.

“Perfect.” She circles me, the compliment hanging in the air.Disbelief.

Rodents must be flying. I almost want to gasp at the compliment. Anoushka has probably spewed more judgemental wisenheimer than flattering remarks.

“Has she finally come tumbling down from her high horse?” Naseria whispers once she walks away.

“Either that or her hip gave up, and she finally tumbled down a flight of stairs and hit her head.”

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