Page 50 of Ma Petite Mort
“Off a guest who just couldn’t keep his organs to himself.”
Alaska appears behind him, on two legs now, hair a mess, face wild. She’s holding what looks like intestines wrapped like a scarf.
“Best night ever!” she yells.
“I know, baby,” Johnny croons, petting her head. “You did so good.”
Bjorn growls softly beside me, but not in anger. It’s that low, content sound he makes when the world’s burning just right.
Indie and Lux arrive next. She’s got blood streaked across her jaw, a whip coiled at her hip, her leather corset half-undone. Lux has one arm slung around her, watching us like a king satisfied with his ruined court.
“Looks like the gods feasted,” Indie says with a smirk.
“They fucking better have,” I mutter, still catching my breath.
Johnny leans in toward Bjorn.
“Be honest—do they ever get tired of blood? Or do they just keep snacking like it’s a buffet?”
“They don’t tire,” Bjorn says, grave as always.
“But do they… you know, come?” Johnny grins.
Bjorn’s glare could peel skin.
“Don’t mock the gods.”
“Oh, baby, I’m not mocking. I’m just wondering if they got off as hard as she did.” He gestures to me and I wave.
Everyone laughs. Even Alaska.
But Bjorn?
He just wraps his arms tighter around me. His little death.
And for one fleeting, blood-drenched moment—I swear the gods laugh with us.
chapter fourteen
bjorn
Where Is My Mind - Safari Riot, Grayson Sanders
The smoke still clings to the air like a ghost that won’t let go. Sunlight is bleeding through the holes in the canvas, soft and orange, brushing against the ruin we’ve made.
We’re all standing together now. What’s left of the tent groans in the wind behind us, torn and blood-soaked, but still upright—like it’s too stubborn to fall until we give it permission.
Giselle leans into my side, humming something low and unhinged while she picks dried blood from her nails. Alaska walks beside Johnny now, upright and swaying like she just learned what standing felt like, and decided to make it a dance. Her smile’s too wide, and her skin’s streaked with something that was definitely once inside someone. Johnny, is unusually calm, gaze distant, like he’s still tasting the echoes of the night in the back of his throat.
Lux and Indie are a few steps ahead of us, facing the morning sun.
I watch the way he touches her—just a hand resting lightly on the small of her back. But there’s tension in his fingers. A different kind of protectiveness. Not the usual smirk and flourish. Something deeper. He hasn’t let her out of his sight since the collapse.
And I don’t think it’s just habit.
They’re holding something back.
Giselle notices too. She tilts her head. “Why’s Daddy Warbucks brooding harder than usual?”
