Page 172 of This Life of Mine

The Wraithhas never been a comforting sight.

He’s the thing people whisper about when they think no one is listening. The shadow in the depth of the darkness. The monster that appears when bad men convince themselves they’re untouchable.

Fear followsThe Wraitheverywhere.

I’ve seen grown men break under the weight of a single look. I’ve watched confidence evaporate. Watched arrogance turn into trembling.

The Wraithisn’t supposed to inspire trust. He’s supposed to inspire terror.

So when I walked back into that room, I expected hesitation. Confusion. And especially fear.

Instead, Lina stared at me like I was the answer to a question she’d been asking herself for years.

The understanding nearly knocked me on my ass.

Because there wasn’t a trace of fear in her. Not one. She wasn’t seeing a monster or a vigilante—a thing capable of violence. She only saw Alex beneath a mask. And somehow that meant more to me than I can put into words.

For years I’ve separated the two halves of myself. Built walls between them. Locked doors. Created rules.

Alex gets to have a life—somewhat.The Wraithgets the darkness. The two aren’t supposed to mix.

But Lina has a habit of bulldozing through every boundary I build. She sees things I’m afraid to share. Understands things I don’t want understood. And somehow, impossibly, she keeps choosing me anyway. Every version of me.

The sense of being desired, despite all that has transpired, is immense. Because I don’t know if anyone has ever chosen all of me before.

Most people only get one version. The polished and professional version, or the dangerous and useful version. Lina gets everything.

And she still smiles at me, still reaches for me, still looks at me like I’m something more.

Right now, she looks hungry. Near ravenous.

I can see the wheels turning. Even through the gear, her touch reaches me, as if she’s a succubus drawing the energy from my body—want and need feeding her appetite.

She is absolutely turned on.

Not at all what I was expecting. Though in more ways than one, I should have expected it. She loves reading fiction. Books on desire. Dark romance. Erotica.

Part of me feels like a tool—something dressed up for her craving. But part of me…is also turned on. Part of me remembers a time when I briefly entertained the idea of wearing this getup for role play. A fleeting fantasy. Nothing more. It never lasted long.

Because when I put on this mask, I’m not Alex. I’mThe Wraith. AndThe Wraithisn’t built for intimacy. He’s built for fear. For violence. For making predators regret their choices.

The thought of bringing that part of myself into a bedroom had always felt wrong.

I’ve never known how to separate what the mask represented.The Wraithcaused pain. And inflicting pain for pleasure had never been something I desired. So I buried the idea almost as quickly as it appeared. I convinced myself there was no version of reality where I could wear this mask and still be Alex beneath it. No version where the man Lina wants could exist alongside the monster everyone else feared.

But standing here now, gazing down into her eyes, I realize I may have been wrong.

Through the lenses, I see her in a way no one else can. The display quietly tracks every detail—elevated pulse, accelerated breathing, subtle fluctuations in body temperature. Her heart rate is steadily climbing, beating hard enough that the numbers flash in the periphery of my vision.

She’s nervous.

Most people seeThe Wraithand freeze. Fear takes over. Their pulse spikes, their muscles tense, and every instinct screams at them to run.

Lina’s heart is racing too. But not for the same reason. Her chest rises with a slow, uneven breath. Her gaze drifts over the armor, the mask, the darkness I’ve spent years hiding behind. There is apprehension there, sure. Curiosity too. And something else. Something that makes my own pulse stumble.

Lina’s found a way to separate the mask from the man wearing it.

Standing here with Lina, the constant hunger for violence that followsThe Wraitheverywhere has gone quiet. The need to punish. To make someone pay for the damage they’ve done. It recedes into the background.