On the outside, we look like everyone else. The golden couple. Beautiful. Dangerous in a thrilling, forbidden way. The type of people that walk into a room and make heads turn. But no one suspects what hides beneath the surface. No one sees the stains under our nails. No one hears the screams we’ve silenced.

They call it “puppy love.” They post our pictures, say “relationship goals.” But if they only knew. If they only saw what happens behind closed doors.

We don’t leave love notes. We leave marks. Rafe carved his initials into my hip with a razor blade the night after our first kill. Said it was better than any ring. Said “this way, no one can take you from me.” I didn’t flinch. I smiled. Because I had already carved mine into the inside of his arm two nights earlier.

The blood bonded us. That first night, it was supposed to be a threat. A warning. But it turned into a craving. A rhythm. A ritual.

They think we’re just passionate. They don’t know the passion includes cleaning a knife together in a gas station sink. They don’t know we cuddle on stained motel sheets, whispering names of the ones who begged before they died.

Tonight was another name for the list. Another man who thought he could touch me, own me, talk to me like I was his. I let him. I played along. That’s part of the fun. Rafe watched from the shadows like always. Our silent language — one glance from me was all he needed.

We went to the guy’s place. He locked the door. He smiled. And then saw Rafe sitting there. Not a word. Just the gleam of metal in his hand and the calm in his eyes.

The guy stuttered. I laughed. Rafe pointed the gun. I pulled out the knife. My knife. The same one he gave me instead of a flower. That’s how I knew I was his.

There was a struggle. A scream. Blood — thick, red, and hot — all over the floor, the walls, our hands. The guy tried to plead, but it was too late. Rafe cracked his ribs with the butt of the gun. I slid the blade across his throat like painting a line.

And after it was done — Rafe took my chin, looked at the smear of blood on my lip, and kissed me hard. Tasted metal and madness between us. He smiled. “You’re perfect.”

People wonder how we always look so happy. It’s because no one knows. No one sees the chaos underneath the calm. The screams behind the smiles. The scars under the silk.

We’re careful. Precise. We burn the clothes. Dump the weapon. Create alibis. No fingerprints. No bodies found. Just rumors. Ghosts. And us — always one step ahead.

They think we’re just young and wild. But we’re worse. We’re something ancient. Like wolves hiding in skin.

And the most twisted part? We don’t kill out of hate. We kill out of love. For each other. For the rush. For the art of it.

The world sees roses. But Rafe gave me a knife. And I said thank you.