Page 10 of Wraith

The blood that pooled beneath my head had turned darker, almost black, seeping into the wood and leaving the edges dry and cracked like old paint. My hair, tangled and sticky with blood, clung to the floorboards in clumps, framing my face like some macabre portrait.

My lips were drawn back slightly, peeling away from my teeth. The foam I’d first noticed leaking from the corner of my mouth had grown worse, the edges now crusted with dried blood. Flies buzzed in lazy circles around my face, their tiny bodies darting to and fro as if savoring their grim feast.

I tried to focus on anything else, but my gaze kept returning to my eyes. Cloudy, dull, and staring into nothing. They hadn’t closed. No one had cared enough to close them.

A flicker of motion drew my attention—a faint ripple in the fabric of my dress as my body shifted, just slightly, as if something beneath the surface had stirred. It wasn’t life, I knew. It was the body breaking itself down, processes I’d never thought about until now continuing on without me.

I gagged. Or I would have if I still had a throat to burn, lungs to expel the reaction. But I was silent, forced to endure the sickening reality that this… thing was what I’d become.

“She’s still here,” I muttered bitterly. “No one even noticed.”

The theater seemed to respond with a groan, its structure settling like the bones of an old corpse. I stepped back—or floated, or whatever this in-between state let me do—and pressed phantom hands against my temples. If I could’ve screamed, I might have. But the silence inside me, the numbness of what I was now, kept it all trapped.

My gaze flicked back to the stage, to the girl who’d once been me. I studied her with a detached kind of horror, cataloging every grotesque detail like a forensic scientist might. The swelling of the abdomen, the discoloration creeping up the arms, the faintly sweet and sour odor of decay that lingered in the air, even though I didn’t need to breathe.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” I whispered. My voice was hollow, but the ache behind it was raw. “I shouldn’t still be here.”

But there she was, the proof of my existence—or what was left of it—sprawled out and rotting in a place no one cared to look. Not my mates. Not the students who partied here. No one.

Tears that I couldn’t cry burned in the corners of my soul, a phantom sensation that mocked me. If this place had been as popular as the whispers claimed, someone would have found me by now. Someone should have. Instead, the only visitors I had were the flies and the growing shadows.

The longer I stared, the harder it became to reconcile the truth. The girl on the floor was me, and yet she wasn’t. That body was hollow now, a lifeless shell whose purpose had long since ended. But the tragedy of it all—it wasn’t just that I’d died. It was that I’d been forgotten so quickly. Left to rot in the silence.

“They didn’t even look back,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Not once.”

The words lingered in the stale air, unanswered. The bond stirred faintly, pulling at me again, reminding me that somewhere out there,theywere alive. Laughing. Moving on. While I stayed tethered to this theater, to this body, to this torment.

I closed my eyes and turned away from the stage. “You didn’t deserve this,” I murmured to the broken girl left behind.

And with that, I let the bonds drag me away, leaving the girl on the stage behind. Just as everyone else had.

When the pull stopped, I was standing in a sunlit apartment, warm and bright—so painfully alive.

Lucian’s apartment.

I recognized it instantly from the few glimpses I’d seen in his social media posts—high ceilings, large windows, and furniture that screamed effortless wealth. He stood by the kitchen island, his back to me as he poured wine into two glasses. His movements were relaxed, confident, as if he had never known the weight of guilt or regret.

A soft laugh pulled my gaze to the couch. Her. The girlfriend. Emma. The one who had always had his attention, always had his heart. She was curled up with a throw blanket, scrolling through her phone with an easy smile on her face. She was beautiful, radiant in a way that seemed impossible to tarnish.

It was a scene I had dreamed of so many times—Lucian smiling, the domestic intimacy, the warmth of a shared space. But in every dream, I was the one he poured wine for, the one he smiled at like that.

Not her.

He turned, carrying the glasses over to her. She looked up, her smile widening as she set her phone aside. “You’re spoiling me,” she teased, taking the glass.

Lucian shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. “You deserve it.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. My knees buckled slightly, but I caught myself on the arm of the chair I’d instinctively reached for. Except my hand passed through it, the reminder of my untethered existence slicing through the ache.

They clinked their glasses together, their laughter soft and intimate, like the world outside didn’t exist. Like I didn’t exist.

The bond throbbed faintly, echoing his emotions. Contentment. Affection. Love.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I forced myself closer, standing just a few feet from them. My gaze lingered on Lucian’s face, tracing the angles and planes I knew so well. He looked the same as always—arrogantly handsome, effortlessly perfect. There wasn’t a single crack in his facade, no sign that he was haunted by what had happened. By what they had done.

By me.

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