The apartment was quiet—too quiet. Only the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft glow of a single lamp cut through the shadows. Bedelia sat perfectly still in her armchair, her legs crossed, the stem of a half-drained wine glass balanced between her fingers. She didn’t greet you when the door opened. Didn’t smile. Just watched.

Her gaze followed you as you stepped inside, that clinical, dissecting calm that made even silence feel dangerous.

Then it hit her—faint, but unmistakable. Something floral. Cheap. Lingering in the air around you.

Her glass touched the table with a sharp click.

"You’re late," she said, her voice as smooth as glass, but far colder. "And you smell..." her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing, "...wrong."

You barely had time to draw breath before she moved. Swift. Surgical. Predatory.

The next moment, you were flat on the hardwood, the world spinning as her weight pinned you in place. One elegant knee pressed to your ribs, the other anchoring your hips. Her hands—cool, steady, unforgiving—closed around your throat with precise, deliberate pressure. Not enough to kill. Just enough to own.

Her lips hovered dangerously close to your ear, her breath warm, her tone almost affectionate. "You thought I wouldn’t notice?" A slight squeeze punctuated the question. "That you could walk into my home, carrying her on your skin?"

Her fingers flexed, nails grazing before tightening again, forcing your pulse against her palm.

"No," she whispered, soft as silk but laced with steel. "You don’t get to forget what you are. Who you are. Mine."

The smile that followed could almost be mistaken for tenderness if not for the razor edge in her eyes. "And I think... tonight, you’ll beg to remember."