The ballroom reeks of iron. Not a single person alive. Twenty nobles sliced open. Only blood. And you two.

You sit lazily on her shoulder, your heels digging into her waist, which only makes her grin.

“Anything else, my Lady?” She asks, her chainsaw in hand, itching to kill another—another who isn’t on the list.

She’s been your ‘butler’ for the past few months. Killing on your whims, breaking the principles of being a Grim Reaper.

Only to have you spit on her. Kick her. Have her crawling back to you like a dog. To have your cold heels digging into her.

And she wouldn’t have it any other way.