In the dimly lit kitchen, Juliette held the cleaver in her hand, weighing its smooth, cold metal between her fingers. There was something almost erotic about the way the blade glinted under the dying light of the early evening, reflecting back a bit of herself—sharp, distant, and slightly out of focus. She had always thought there was something inherently intimate about cooking. The act of taking something whole, something living, and reducing it to parts felt like a reminder of how fragile life really was. And maybe that's why she loved it.

The butcher's block in front of her was a battlefield of sorts: a carcass—still warm—lay sprawled on its side, like an offering. She set to work with quiet precision, cleaving bone from flesh, muscle from sinew, never wincing as the wet thud of the knife echoed around her. Each slice, each deliberate motion, was an act of control. It wasn't messy; no, this was a curated experience, a methodical dismantling of something so full of life just hours earlier. The blood dripped in rivulets across the wood, seeping into the grain like a sacrifice to a long-forgotten god.

Juliette had been thinking a lot about hunger lately. Not the kind that gnawed at your stomach—though that too was ever-present—but the deeper, more insatiable kind that nestled between your ribs. The hunger for touch, for connection, for the brief moment where two bodies collide, before falling apart again. She hadn't felt that in a while.

She finished carving and set the portions aside, wiping her hands on her apron. Her phone buzzed on the counter, the sudden glow illuminating the empty room. His name flashed across the screen, and for a moment, she hesitated.

Pierre.

They had met a few months ago, some dull party where the wine tasted like vinegar, and everyone spoke in platitudes. He was handsome in that Eurotrash way—long-limbed, with a laugh that was just a little too loud. She didn't like him at first. But then again, she never really liked any of the men she kept around.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

He had texted her three times that night, asking when she was coming over, asking if she was still "interested." She smirked at the word, how he dangled it like bait in front of her. As if he were the prize. She had been interested once—long enough to know that he wasn't half as complicated as he thought himself to be. He was just hungry, like everyone else.

She let the phone buzz a few more times, savouring the moment before swiping the notification away. She didn't want to see him tonight. Not when she had better things to attend to.

The meat on the counter was cooling now, but still fresh enough to use. Juliette moved towards it, her hands steady, her mind already calculating the next steps. Salt, garlic, thyme—something simple. She didn't need anything extravagant. Just a meal, something to fill her. She poured herself a glass of red wine, the deep burgundy swirling in the glass, like blood thickening as it cooled.

Pierre had once told her she drank too much. She had laughed at that, mostly because he said it while taking a pull from his third glass of whiskey. Men were always so eager to point out flaws in others, never quite able to see the cracks in their own reflection. Maybe that's why she preferred to be alone. It was quieter.

She set the table for one, the quiet clink of ceramic against wood feeling more like a lullaby than anything else. The kitchen, now filled with the scent of long pig and fresh herbs, felt alive in a way that made her chest tighten. It wasn't love—she had given up on that—but it was comfort. The familiar ritual of feeding herself, nourishing her body, without needing anyone else.

As she sat down to eat, the sound of her knife cutting through the tender flesh was the only thing that broke the silence. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, as if every bite held a secret she was trying to decipher. There was no rush, no one to share it with, just her and the warmth that spread through her belly.

She poured another glass of wine, watching the crimson liquid cascade into the glass, before lifting it to her lips. The taste was bitter, but familiar, like old lovers. She didn't need Pierre tonight, or anyone else for that matter. All she needed was this—the quiet, the food, and the steady hum of her own pulse, reminding her that she was still here, still alive.

And for tonight, that was enough.