#thunderflames

Dorcas looks down at the pumpkin, arching an eyebrow. The carved grin is uneven, tilting slightly to the right. The murder weapon lies on the table between them, still covered in fleshy bits.

“If the aim was to make it creepy, it worked,” she replies.

Fingers slide from the handle of the knife to find Dorcas's cheek, still fresh from the massacre operated on the pumpkin. Zoya's lips brush Dorcas's, a whisper of something more.

“There's still another one.” Zoya smiles, her gaze intent. “My husband won't be back before an hour, we might as well keep practising.”

Dorcas sighs and turns away from her. The second pumpkin rests on the table, unscathed. Soon, the knife will pierce its flesh, too, carving an everlasting smile onto its face. A silent crime. Zoya's wedding ring lies next to it, on the table, unstained and unbothered by the bloodshed that just took place in her kitchen. Her fourth marriage, already – Dorcas has stopped counting them long ago. For her own sanity.

When Dorcas meets Zoya's eye, she knows it's too late to back down. She can never say no to her, can she? Zoya doesn't need a knife to have Dorcas at her mercy, always a touch away from crumbling entirely.

“Let's not make this a habit,” Dorcas murmurs, leaning into Zoya.

Zoya's feather touch brushes Dorcas's skin. She brings their lips together, and smiles. Deadly and unforgiving.