It was a proof, one last note to seal their duet, Mann handed her the knife-its blade glinting, warm still from his grip-and he was holding her gaze. "Kill for me, Cassette. Show me we're one." The nosy neighbor, Mrs. Platt, had pried too much-was there knocking, and asking for into, "strange smells," her voice buzzing in their peace. Cassette hesitated, her hand trembling, but Mann kissed her wrist, whispering, "For us, my muse," and she nodded, her breath hittingched, a dark spark flaring in her eyes.
They ambushed Platt in her kitchen, the old woman stirring soup, her back turned. Cassette lunged with the knife sinking into Platt's shoulder-a wet, meaty thud, blood spraying in a hot arc, splattering Cassette's face, her gasp sharp as Platt screamed, staggering. Mann watched, his pulse racing, as Cassette yanked the blade free, plunging it again-into the chest this time, ribs cracking, the steel grinding bone as blood gushed, thick and dark, pooling on the linoleum. Platt clawed at Cassette, nails raking her arm, but Mann stepped in, pinning the woman's wrists, his voice a low croon-"Finish it, Cassette." She stabbed again, wild, the knife tearing through gut, guts spilling wet and red, a rancid stench rising as Platt's eyes rolled back, her body jerking, then stilling, a crimson ruin at their feet.
Blood dripped from Cassette's hands, her chest heaving, and Mann caught her, licking the gore from her cheek-hot, coppery, a taste that set him ablaze. "You're my echo, Cassette, my perfect refrain," he growled, pushing her against the wall, the knife clattering down as he kissed her-fierce, messy, their mouths slick with blood and spit, her moan a wet shudder against him. Her hands sticky with death ripped his shirt, and he tore open her blouse, buttons popping, his lips finding her throat, her breasts, biting hard as she arched, her skin flushed yet damp. "You proved it, my love," he panted, shedding his pants, her skirt hiked as he lifted her, her legs locking around him, slick with sweat and want."
He thrust into her, raw, unyielding. The wall shook, blood smeared between them-hers, Platt's, theirs-and yet fetid in that dark, wet bond. Her nails gouged his back, drawing more, and he growled, "We're one, Cassette." His rhythm was brutal, romantic, cries peaking from her-loud, drenched, a song of murder and lust that soaked the air. She came hard, her body trembling, wet heat flooding them, and he followed, a roar in his throat, their fluids mixing with the gore, a crimson-soaked embrace. "She scratched our harmony, and you carved her out-my love's a mirror of your blade, my muse's final play." He held her there, panting, licking blood from her lips, their bodies a sticky shuddering mess, the kill a dark aphrodisiac binding them tighter.