Persephone's Point of View
♕︎ ♕︎ ♕︎
I clicked my tongue in frustration, the sharp sound echoing in the silent room. The bitterness I'd been carrying all day rose in my chest, simmering just under the surface. "They only win because Harry Potter is there," I muttered, my voice thick with irritation. I wasn't expecting anyone to hear, especially not Pride-Niklaus. But, of course, he did. He always did. "And he actually suits Slytherin better, if you ask me. Just like Hermione is the absolute epitome of a Ravenclaw, and she's only in Gryffindor because it's for the plot. Slytherin are definitely the best house."
To my surprise—and absolute dismay—he didn't challenge me. No biting counter-argument, no arrogant comeback. Instead, he did something far worse. He agreed. _He agreed with me_. His lips curled into that signature, infuriating smirk of his, and he licked them as though savoring the moment. "For once, I totally agree with you, Scarlet," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "Slytherin are the best house."
The way he spoke, so casually, as if it were nothing, made my stomach turn. His words didn't just feel like a simple agreement—they were like a calculated victory in some game he'd been playing all along. I knew it then. He wasn't just nodding along because he thought I was right. He knew what he was doing. He was purposely agreeing, just to get under my skin. And, damn it, it worked. It always did.
I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to mask the seething frustration bubbling inside me. "I'm shocked you even know what I'm talking about," I said, keeping my voice as cool as I could manage. I wasn't really surprised, of course. I'd known from the moment we met that Pride-Niklaus was not your average anything. But it was a fun thing to pretend, to act like I thought he was too stupid or too self-absorbed to get the reference. Not that it would matter. He had a way of seeing right through me.
He tilted his head, considering my words for a moment, before his usual cocky smirk returned. "I enjoy books," he said, almost as if it were some deep confession. "And I enjoy Harry Potter too, so how could I not know what you're talking about? I'm not the smartest male in Sky-Eden Academy for nothing, Scarlet. What? You thought I wasn't a book guy?" He gave a little dramatic pause, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and mockery. "You would be surprised."
I wasn't surprised at all. The only thing surprising was how effortlessly he made it sound like he was revealing some great secret. It was infuriating. I had no doubt that Pride-Niklaus thought of himself as a mystery—one that needed to be unraveled by someone else. He loved that. The attention, the power. And I hated him for it.
I bit back a snarky retort and fought the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes. "You're such a douche, Pride-Niklaus," I muttered under my breath, so soft I wasn't even sure he'd hear me. But, of course, he did.
He leaned in slightly, his presence so close now that I could feel the heat of his body, even though we weren't touching. His scent, rich with the earthy undertones of musk and cedarwood, seemed to fill the space between us, creeping into my senses and making it harder to focus on anything but him.
He smirked, unbothered by my obvious irritation. "Countering what you said yesterday," he began, his voice smooth, a lazy drawl to it, "you are the one who knows nothing about me, Scarlet. We've known each other since you were seven and I was eight, and you only see what you want to see, don't you?" He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, but there was something about the way he did it, that blend of arrogance and amusement, that made my skin crawl. "Tsk. What a half-arse nemesis I have," he finished, his words light and playful, but laced with an undercurrent of something darker.
But I wasn't about to let him get under my skin. Not this time. I couldn't afford it. So, I did the only thing I could think of—I leaned back in my chair, trying to adopt an air of indifference, as if he didn't matter.
"You know what, Pride-Niklaus?" I said, my tone cooler now, calculated. "That's where you're mistaken. I am not obsessed with you, or with destroying your life. No. I'm obsessed with destroying your mother's life." My words were sharp, cutting through the tension between us. "You, on the other hand, are just a pawn in this big, intricate game I'm playing. You're just a piece of the puzzle I need to break and defeat in order to get to the White Queen." I leaned forward, eyes narrowing into slits. "The less I know about you on a personal level, the better it will be. The real villain of this story is your mother. You're just a mid-plot antagonist. That's it. Nothing more. Don't get it twisted."
I paused, letting the weight of my words settle in the space between us. I could see the way his eyes flashed, but I didn't care. This was my battle, my war, and he was just a fleeting obstacle in the way. "But I don't care about becoming the villain of your story, Pride-Niklaus," I added, my voice colder, sharper than ever. "If it means killing your oh-so-dearest mother, then so be it."
I let the silence hang in the air for a moment longer, my words like daggers in the thick tension between us. This was the vision I had in mind—a future where his mother crumbled beneath me, her empire shattered, and him left to watch. He wouldn't understand, not yet. But that was fine. He didn't need to know everything. Not about the three investigation rooms in my penthouse, each one dedicated to tracking every movement, every interaction between him, his sister, and their entire little entourage. He couldn't know. I wouldn't let him get close enough to find out.
But the deeper part of me, the part that both terrified and intrigued me, was afraid. I knew I couldn't keep hiding forever. The surface-level knowledge was easy to maintain, but what about the things lurking beneath? What if I found something in them—some dark secret, some buried truth—that might make me falter? That was the last thing I needed. I couldn't afford to be distracted by any of them, especially not him.
Pride-Niklaus had a darkness in him. I could feel it. And it was that darkness I feared the most. It was far too similar to my own.
"You are as sweet as a thorn-full red rose, Scarlet," he purred, his voice soft, almost too soft, too gentle, for my liking.
I could feel the words crawling beneath my skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. It took everything in me to not flinch. I gritted my teeth, trying to keep my composure. "You have no idea," I muttered, my words barely audible, but sharp all the same.
"Maybe I want to," he said, his voice low, almost hypnotic. "Maybe I want to know everything about you, Scarlet."
I fought the urge to lash out, to tell him where he could shove his curiosity, but I held my tongue. There was a line, and I knew better than to cross it. Letting him in was the last thing I needed. But even as I told myself that, I couldn't deny the little voice in my head that whispered, Maybe I should let him get closer.
His next words were a casual challenge, but the impact was far from casual. "Even if those thorns are made to murder you?"
For a moment, I just stared at him, blinking, completely caught off guard by his audacity. I didn't know how to react, didn't know what to say, so I just smiled—a sharp, vicious smile. "That only makes me want it more," I said, the words flowing out before I could even think.
And he didn't disappoint. "That only makes me want it more, Scarlet!" he laughed, his voice a dark challenge that I could feel all the way down to my bones.
I froze. My mind short-circuited, my thoughts spinning out of control as a mix of fury and something much more dangerous flooded my veins. It wasn't anger I felt—not entirely, at least. It was something else, something I couldn't quite name. Let's ignore that, I told myself, trying to center myself. Just ignore it. Don't let it affect you. Pretend he didn't just say that. Pretend it didn't matter.
But I knew it did.
I forced myself to look away, to steady my breathing. "That'll get you a sliced throat, Pride-Niklaus," I said, my voice steady and cold, hoping he couldn't sense the crack in my facade.
He didn't flinch. Of course he didn't. "You've done it before," he replied, his tone completely nonchalant. "I'm starting to get used to it."
I couldn't help it—I felt my blood boil. "And I'm the psycho?" I asked, my words sharp, acidic.
He shrugged as though it was nothing, a lazy smirk on his lips. "I never said I wasn't, Scarlet. We're more alike than you imagine."
I swallowed hard, trying to block out the sickening twist in my stomach. "In your dreams," I spat back, my tone biting, desperate to sound dismissive.
"More like in my nightmares," he scoffed, but there was a dark tone on it.
"Nightmares indeed," because my life is definitely a streaming live of one.