She wasn’t supposed to fascinate me.

Adelise was supposed to be a tool—something sharp and useful, like a knife you keep in your pocket for when words fail. When I first saw her, she was standing over a man’s body, her hands painted red. The blood was still warm, running between her fingers like melted glass. She didn’t cry. Didn’t flinch. She just smiled—soft and eerie, like a child admiring her own masterpiece. That’s when I knew she was perfect.

People like her are rare. Fragile minds with violent hands. All they need is someone to guide their chaos—and I’ve always been good at guiding.

“Do you regret it?” I asked that night, stepping closer. The alley smelled of rain and metal. She turned her head, eyes catching the faint light like broken glass.

“Do you?” she asked back, voice calm, curious.

I smiled. “No. But you could’ve done it cleaner.”

That was the beginning.

Now, weeks later, she follows me like a shadow—silent, obedient, hungry for approval. I give her purpose. She gives me results. When I say go, she kills. When I say stop, she smiles and waits for my next command. She doesn’t understand that I’m not her savior. I’m the one sharpening the blade she’s become.

Aven wouldn’t understand this side of me. She still believes I’m someone worth saving, that my silence hides sorrow instead of sin. She thinks I’m calmer lately, softer, maybe even in love. She doesn’t realize the reason I sleep better now is because Adelise exists.

I look at my phone. A new message from her: “Do you want him dead or broken?”

I pause, considering. The man deserves pain, not peace. “Broken,” I type back.

Her reply comes fast—just a simple smiley face.

It’s almost funny. Somewhere between control and destruction, I feel something stir in me. Not guilt. Not love. Just… interest. Watching her is like watching fire consume dry wood—terrible and beautiful, unstoppable once lit.

She calls me Zayden with that little spark in her tone, like I’m something divine. She doesn’t see the disgust in my eyes when she looks too long, too deep. Maybe that’s why I keep her close. It’s easier to use someone who mistakes your cruelty for affection.

I never lie to Aven outright. I just give her the version of me she wants—the one who holds her gently, promises safety, whispers that she’s my only. She believes it because she wants to. And I let her.

But in the spaces between those lies, I build my empire from shadows. Adelise is my most dangerous piece. My beautiful weapon. My pawn.

Maybe one day she’ll realize she’s being played. Maybe one day she’ll turn her knife on me.

Until then, I’ll keep smiling.

Because monsters like us don’t fall in love.

We just learn to use whoever does.

Zayden has the kind of smile that makes you forget the world is cruel. It’s soft, deliberate, and painfully gentle—the kind of smile that convinces you monsters don’t exist. Maybe that’s why I trusted him so easily. Because when he looks at me, I see calm where others would see danger.

We met a year ago in a bookstore. I was reaching for a novel on the highest shelf when his hand brushed mine. He apologized, his voice quiet, smooth, and polite. I remember thinking his eyes looked tired, like he’d seen too much. Maybe that’s what drew me in—his quiet sadness, the kind you want to heal.

Now, I can’t imagine a day without him.

He doesn’t talk much about his past, and I never push. I’ve learned that silence can be a kind of trust too. When he disappears for hours, I tell myself he’s busy. When his hands come home cold, I tell myself it’s the weather. I don’t ask questions because I’m afraid of the answers.

Tonight, he’s sitting on my couch, the dim light painting soft shadows across his face. I watch him scroll through his phone, thumb moving in slow, steady motions.

“Who are you texting?” I ask, half teasing.

He looks up immediately. His gaze is unreadable, calm as still water. Then he smiles, just slightly. “Work,” he says. “A client needed something.”

“Oh.” I nod, smiling too, pretending I’m not disappointed. He never lies outright—just enough to make me believe.

He stands, slips his phone into his pocket, and walks toward me. “You think too much, Aven,” he murmurs, his voice low, threaded with warmth. “You worry even when there’s no reason.”

“I just miss you,” I admit. “You’ve been distant lately.”

He tilts my chin up. “I’m here now,” he whispers, and kisses my forehead.

And just like that, the ache fades. His touch always does that—erases doubt, replaces it with longing. It’s a dangerous kind of comfort, the kind that feels like safety while it kills you slowly.

Later, after he leaves, I stay by the window, watching the lights shimmer across the street. The night feels heavier without him, quieter in the wrong way. My reflection looks lonely in the glass, but I tell myself it’s fine. He’ll call. He always does.

My phone buzzes. A message from Zayden: Lock your doors. Sleep early.

I smile to myself. “Always protective,” I whisper, not knowing what his hands have touched tonight, or whose name he whispered before mine.

I love him too much to wonder.

There are parts of Zayden I’ll never understand—dark corners I pretend not to see. Maybe love isn’t about knowing everything. Maybe it’s about choosing to believe what doesn’t hurt.

Outside, a siren screams in the distance. I close the window, pretending it’s not a sign.

Zayden once told me, “Some people love softly, some love violently.”

I didn’t understand then.

But maybe I will—when love finally decides which one kills me first.