C19 Cinderella among the wolves

Frida’s exaggerated gasps and breathless hums filled the room, each one more grating than the last. I could almost picture her—eyes half-closed in pleasure, making those sounds like she’d just had a taste of something forbidden, something indulgent, like a rich dessert. It disgusted me. Was that what Beowulf wanted? To be desired the way people crave sugar, mindlessly?

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to breathe through the rising bile in my throat. I couldn’t look at them. I couldn’t let myself see any more of this. But when Frida squealed in that high-pitched way, I couldn’t help but peek, just for a moment, through the strands of my hair. What had made her react so strongly? What had Beowulf done to make her lose herself like that?

The answer hit me with the force of a slap to the face. Beowulf hadn’t moved. He was still in the same position, lounging carelessly in the armchair with those cold, indifferent eyes fixed on her. He wasn’t touching her. He wasn’t doing anything. It was all her. She was the one doing the work.

I couldn’t stop the scowl from twisting my face. This wasn’t sexy. This wasn’t passionate. It was pathetic. It was like watching two drunk pigeons stumbling around on a rooftop, fumbling with each other, too clumsy to be anything but sad.

“You’re still soft,” Frida complained, her voice an irritating mix of breathless and demanding.

Beowulf’s growl sent a shiver down my spine, but his words were just as hollow. “Then you’re doing it wrong.”

I pressed my lips together in a tight line, the bitterness of his fragile ego almost tasting like metal on my tongue. It was hard to imagine that someone as… experienced as Frida couldn’t get it right. Rumor had it, she’d used her mouth to get herself out of countless situations, and yet here she was, failing at something so simple. My eyes narrowed. She had no excuse for this.

Frida scrambled to her feet, the tension in her movements obvious as she headed for the food delivery door, the one most houses had tucked in a corner. “Should I order you a tonic from the Hatch?”

Beowulf’s hand shot out, grabbing her arm with a snarl. “Are you calling me soft?”

“No, I—I didn’t mean—”

“Dance for me,” he growled, cutting her off. “And make it good.”

I almost groaned aloud. This was too much. My stomach churned. I wanted out. I wanted to be anywhere but here. I didn’t care if it meant facing the consequences. Anything was better than being forced to witness this.

Frida seemed too eager to comply. She picked up a remote and played the sound of a sultry saxophone, the music slow and seductive. The very thought of what was coming made me want to crawl out of my skin. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing time to speed up, counting each second, praying this would end soon.

But then Beowulf’s voice cut through the music, low and commanding. “Stop.”

I heard the shuffle of Frida’s feet as she stomped her foot in frustration. “You haven’t touched me since last night!” she practically wailed, her voice dripping with anger. “If that dead girl meant so much to you, why the hell did you let her die?”

My breath caught. The words were a slap in my face, a cruel reminder of everything I had lost. She wasn’t just talking about me as a person. She was talking about my wolf. She was talking about the bond I had, the life I’d had before it was all ripped away.

Beowulf surged to his feet in a rage. The sound of his chair scraping against the floor was sharp, like a knife. His growl drowned out the saxophone, and I could feel the fury radiating from him. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I braced myself, wondering if he would strike her.

Frida flinched, instinctively raising her arms to shield her face. But Beowulf didn’t hit her. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the walls.

I let out a shaky breath, my body stiff with tension. I couldn’t quite understand why I felt relieved. They were both people I despised. And yet, something in me had recoiled at the idea of them fighting like that. It was too ugly. Too familiar.

Frida, on the other hand, wasn’t done. She turned off the music, her face scrunched with frustration as she stomped around the room, muttering under her breath. “Fuck Beowulf,” she hissed, her voice thick with venom. “Fuck him and his soft cock. Fuck him and his obsession with a dead girl.”

The words stung, but I wasn’t sure why. Was she really that selfish? That self-centered? She couldn’t have cared less about me—about what I’d gone through. All she saw was herself.

Frida stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her with a sharp thud.

I stood there, silent, my mind spinning. Beowulf’s motorcycle roared to life outside, its engine growling as he sped off into the night. I counted silently, forcing myself to breathe evenly. One, two, three… ten.

The sound of the shower running from the bathroom gave me the opening I needed. Now was my chance.

I crawled out from beneath the bed, my muscles sore from staying so still for so long. I stood up, my body stiff and sore, and headed for the door that led into the hallway.

But then, as my hand touched the handle, I heard Frida’s voice again, sharp and accusatory.

“Who is that?”

I froze.

My pulse hammered in my chest, every beat like a drum calling attention to my presence.

Crap.

Without thinking, I spun around, my breath caught in my throat.

Frida froze. Her wide, panicked eyes locked on me as she took an unsteady step back, clutching her towel to her chest like it could shield her from whatever nightmare I had become.

"You’re dead," she whispered, her voice trembling.

I let the words slip out in a low, eerie whisper, a voice I barely recognized as my own. "Thanks to you."

Her breath hitched. "What are you?" she stammered, her eyes darting around in desperation, searching for a way out, for something to explain away the horror in front of her. "A ghost?"

I gave a hollow laugh, my hands rubbing together slowly as I bared my teeth in a grin that felt as sharp as it was hollow. "Maybe I’m haunting you from Hell." I let the words linger, the air heavy with the weight of them. "The demons know all about your... talents. They can’t wait to see how you perform."

Her hand flew to her mouth, her body recoiling as she took another step back. She looked ready to break, her breath coming in panicked gasps. "What do you want?"

I let the silence stretch for a moment, savoring the fear in her eyes before answering. "I’m the ghost of wrongs past," I said, my voice now carrying a hint of dark humor. "I’m here to warn you. Maybe you shouldn’t be such a bitch."

Frida’s lips pressed together, her face pinched with frustration, but the bite in her usual retort was gone. She swallowed hard, her throat working with effort. "Can you be more specific?"

I stepped closer, my voice colder now, sharper. "How about not forming mobs against people who just want to live? How about not using omegas and Neutrals like free labor, like their lives mean nothing?"

Frida’s shoulders lifted, her hands trembling, but she kept her voice steady, though her face betrayed her. "It’s not up to me."

"Oh, but you’re more than happy to enforce the rules when it suits you," I snapped, a wave of bitterness rising. "Everyone in Lunaris pays their taxes, but people like me? We’re stuck working for free, serving at the whims of people like you."

She flinched, a subtle movement, but it spoke volumes. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. After a long moment of silence, she seemed to deflate, a soft exhale escaping her. "Alright. I’ll try to do better. Anything else?"

I pointed at her with a fierce intensity, the accusation clear in my eyes. "Just know that we’ll be watching you," I said, my voice like ice. "Me, the lower demons, and their tools of torture."

Frida visibly shuddered, her face going pale, a tremor running through her.

I took a breath, letting it settle in my chest before delivering the final blow. "Close your eyes. If you want me to leave."

She blinked at me, confusion and fear warping her features. "Why would you—"

"Because if you don’t, the portal to Hell will pull everyone who’s looking straight into it," I said with a dark grin.

Frida’s eyes widened, and before I could even react, she bolted, rushing into the bathroom with a strangled sob.

A wave of relief washed over me, but it was brief. I stepped toward the door, my body ready to flee, my mind already racing. My feet hit the stairs, and I couldn’t help but glance back.

Frida had stopped at the hallway, holding her phone in her hand, her face twisted in horror.

"You’re a preternatural," she hissed, tapping at the screen of her phone like it was the only thing that could save her.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

"Shit." My legs moved before my brain could catch up. I was already running, my feet pounding the stairs, each step sending a jolt of fear through my body. I should have knocked her out. I should have done something better than playing the ghostly trick. But now, it was too late.

A siren blared, its shrill sound slicing through the air, amplified by magic—just like the shaman had done last night. My entire body stiffened, dread creeping up my spine.

I was done for.

Panic surged in my chest, sharp and suffocating as the pressure around me thickened. The air itself seemed to push back, as if the house itself were fighting to keep me inside. I pressed harder, but every step felt like I was walking through molasses, my body heavy and unresponsive.

"Whoever is controlling the preternatural formerly known as Ayla Gerrison, we have captured your physical form," a disembodied voice boomed, its cold, clipped tone ricocheting off the walls. "Disable the corpse."

The words made my blood run cold, a sick knot twisting in my stomach. A corpse. They were calling me a corpse now. Like I wasn’t even alive.

My throat went dry, and I fought against the invisible chains that held me in place. I couldn’t stop now. I had to get out.

Just a little further. I could do this.

“Hey, Chlamydia,” a voice called from behind me, sharp and laced with disdain.

I froze.

I didn’t need to turn around. I already knew who it was.

Frida.

She stood there, a twisted grin spreading across her face, her hand wrapped around a shotgun’s grip. The barrel glinted cold in the dim light of the hallway.

"Go back to Hell," she sneered, her voice thick with contempt.