BLEEDING VELVET

The lights were off again in Aren's apartment, but Almond didn't need them. Her body knew the path from the door to the bed like it was drawn in her bones. Like it was stitched beneath her skin.

She wasn't there to talk.

She wasn't there to run.

She just needed to feel anything that wasn't the emptiness screaming in her ribs.

Aren sat in the dark, shirtless, a single candle flickering beside his wrist. That same wrist—the one with her initials carved in, blood once fresh, now faded like a half-forgotten vow.

"You came back," he whispered. "Even after what I did."

Almond didn't answer. She peeled off the jacket, letting it drop like dead weight. The silence that hung between them wasn't gentle—it was the kind that held knives in the middle, waiting to be walked into.

"You smell like fire," he added. "And ruin."

She walked forward, barefoot, each step deliberate. Her shadow stretched long, devouring the candlelight. "You once said my soul tasted like sugarcane and sulfur. Was that a lie?"

Aren's throat tightened. "No. I said your soul felt like that."

Her fingers touched his jaw. Cold. Possessive. Soft as velvet, but her nails dug just slightly—like she wanted to remind him she wasn't safe anymore.

"I think I'm losing my mind," he muttered.

"You're not," she said. "I took it."

A beat passed.

Aren looked up, eyes black with something ancient. "Then take the rest of me."

The kiss was sharp, brutal. Her mouth crashed into his like revenge. There was no love in it—only need. A hurricane of want, loneliness, obsession, and curses wrapped up in bruises and lust.

When she pulled back, his lip bled.

She smiled. "You always bleed for me."

He touched his lip, saw the crimson. "And you never say sorry."

"Would it change anything?"

"No," he said. "It would ruin you."

The room was thick with unsaid things. She turned away, curling onto the bed like a feral cat, spine exposed, her back littered with scars Aren had never asked about. Maybe because he knew the answers would make him fall harder.

"You're still cold," he said, crawling behind her.

"I'm always cold."

He wrapped his arms around her anyway.

"I heard your voice again," she whispered.

"In your sleep?"

"No. In the mirror. It said… it said the Devil has my name on his tongue."

Aren blinked. "That's not new."

"No," she agreed. "But this time, he sounded hungry."