Rosie's Thorns 🥀|18+|🥀

20 | The Appeal

(How Villians Are Made- Madalen Duke)

《¤Anonymous¤》

Her chest rose and fell rhythmically in the dim lighting of her LED lights. Her pale skin an odd pastel blue from the lights and her face softened as she slept peacefully, she looked harmless like this. Her pink hair turned a dark shade of purple in the lighting and sprawled across her pillow around her, she looked other worldly like this. One leg thrown over her comforter, the other hidden as she hugged the thick blanket to her. Not an ounce of fear or terror.

Rosie Costa was harmless in this state.

In a satin black cami and a pair of matching shorts that were too short for her own good, she had no idea the danger she faced. The blade weighed heavy in my hand, the silver tip glowing in the darkness as I stood at the foot of her bed.

In the darkness a chain glittered around her ankle, little charms dangling from it. Instsntly I knew it was a gift from him. I knew by his intitals molded behind hers.

Pathetic. He was always weak. And that's how he fails. That's how he always loses to me. He feels.

I do not.

I tilt a charm with my blade and watch as it sparkles. She was his weakness. If I were to end her here and now... Would he snap? Would he finally lose control?

I hum to myself as I trail the dull side of the blade up her calf. She doesn't stir, completely dead to the world. I pull the blade back as goosebumps speckle her flesh, a sigh escaping her delicate lips.

I could see it. I could see the appeal. I could see why he was obsessed. She was beautiful, but not beautiful enough to spare. What else did she have that drew him in? Beauty only got women so far. What other talents rendered him absolutely useless?

I lean down, studying her face closer. Why was he so entranced?

She moves, this time rolling so her back faced me. I rise to my full height and glance around her room. There wasn't anything remarkable about it. No pictures of friends or family. No personal decor besides an overflowing jewelry box, lotion, and makeup. I'd already rooted through her closet, dresser, and bathroom cabinets. Nothing I found could paint a picture of who Rosie Costa was. A model student her whole life, a radiating sunshine personality on social media, and the perfect front to the Costa Mafia. She was the daughter of Grace Wilson and Armando Costa... supposedly.

My findings beg to differ.

There are skeletons in her mothers closet, which means she is of no importance to my plan. I'm after Costa blood. Rosie Costa was neither Costa blood nor worth killing... tonight.

I glance back at her as she groans in her sleep. Perhaps a night-terror by the way she balls up her fists and gasps for air. She may wake soon. Her face twists in agony, but the look of utter terror doesn't give the same spark of adrenaline as it normally would. I find myself stepping closer as her chest begins to heave.

Who hurt you?

Interesting.

I lean over her, my leather gloved hand tracing the crease of her elbow to her wrist. Beads of sweat appear above her brow as a whimper hums from her throat.

Ah! There it is. The appeal.

She was delicate in his eyes. He the protector.

A hoarse chuckle escaped my lips. If only she knew how dark of a shadow Dominic Rivera casts. If she knew, I doubt she'd stay.