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Fuck, I flex my hand bones. It’s a two-piece dress showing a narrow gap of midriff skin. Black and short with a ruffly tiered skirt. Tiny spaghetti straps I’d love to tear away with my teeth.
All her tattoos embrace her. They come together in a great fusion of swirling light and shadow.
She could shine this dark light to splinter both our realms.
She belongs to adrenaline and dopamine.
If anything, she does not belong to the amygdala abnormalities. She has more gray matter, granting her empathy and spirit. She may have the MAOA gene like her father, butshe’s channeled her aggression into extreme adrenaline highs and global travel.
But, oh, her war!—such a war with herself. The only daughter of her father’s dark and doting obsession. Too tempted to follow in his bloody footsteps.
I feel the weight of Zenya’s inner storm, her embrace of darkness and her demons. This endless war, it’s her relentless struggle. Once, she tried to cut those demons out, hoping to expel them from her blood like they were foreign invaders.
Now, she adorns herself with inked symbols, mocking their presence with each tattoo.
And yet, I see her soul. In those still, quieter moments, she retreats into the shadows, unable to face her reflection so entwined with darkness—a soul that tasted the thrill of power over life and death. She loved it so much, she spent her life running from it.
“She fears not infamy,” I muse as I watch her dance with her tattoos like they are her entranced partners.
Morpheus makes his way to my side, so I lower my voice. Only he may hear.
“She fears its allure,” I say. “The exhilaration of wielding such ultimate control—snuffing out life, feeling bones yield beneath her grasp. That is her true dread.”
I contemplate her viral following in the waking world. The viewers with the sharpest teeth and tongues. “They hunger for her past sins, craving to taste her darkness, longing to know if the salacious sins of her past lurk in her blood. They do not desire the dark drama that is Zenya. She is more than their perception—her needs run deeper, driven not by base instincts but by a mind that craves more than mere survival.”
“She has survived too long,” Morpheus adds with a nod and drinks more of his wine. He has not ripped his sightless eyes from her—like he’s able to haunt her.
I ponder her unique balance of how she wrestles with the ghosts of her father’s legacy. Ghosts that live inside her soul, but they do not command her heart. It is too wild. And too great for any world. Fuck, she sends shivers into my very soul.
“Ah, Zenya,” I murmur, feeling the tug of her conflicted desires, “she yearns for more gray matter, seeking to transcend the shadows that haunt her. Those ghosts of her father’s violent road of broken bones, strangulation scars, and blood stains.”
Her journey mirrors my own—a forever quest for dark dreams and beautiful nightmares. A desire for understanding, acceptance, and the elusive redemption from within the deepest darkness.
My brother listens in solemnity—as if he understands how I’ll never let her go.
I posture on my throne and steeple my fingertips, a silent proclamation of my authority. He is but a visitor in my realm.
Gods, I want to seize her sweet, dancing flesh, lift that black lacy skirt, and ram my cock to the back of her cunt. Show her how to dance with a real demon.
I know full and well the fascination she holds for me, her willingness to seek my nightmares and play with them. In her, I have found a vessel refined through trials. I’m cutting her—facet by facet like a black diamond to refract my darkest visions. And she is shining for me.
My heart beats with steadfast resolve, this ancient rhythm.
While they dance still, Morpheus gestures to the opposite end of the great hall.
I stand because it’s time for a brotherly discussion. As I adjust my robe, I feel Zenya’s eyes on me and note the lift of her brows, her chest rising as if hope swells there. Hope does not exist here.
I follow my brother with his irritating shadows trailing him while stragglers still chase after her, my chest tightening. Hiswings fold casually behind him. Mine harden with my purpose as we leave the playful chaos behind.
As we depart from the supper hall, I clench my hand into a fist, ready to conquer my brother.
The tension thickens between us as we convene in a nearby meeting room.
“No, Morpheus,” I rumble a low growl, sitting opposite him at the table of bones.
“You’re a damn fool, Nyxion. Do you need a reminder of what has happened to all your attempts at creating a weaver?”
Arrogant fucker. “It’s different this time.” I leer at him, knowing he can sense my triumph.
