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Tyler Galpin had been declared innocent. Not because the evidence pointed to his redemption, but because the defense had played its best card: he had never been in control of his own body. The Hyde had been nothing more than a weapon, a puppet in the hands of Laurel Gates. With the trial concluded and his name legally clean, Jericho was no longer a home for him. Neither his father nor the town’s residents wanted to see him again; his acquittal didn’t mean they forgave him.
So, he moved to New Jersey with his uncle, a man of few words and even less affection, who offered him a roof, a room, and little else. With no better options, Tyler accepted the offer and ended up enrolled at Nancy Reagan High School, Wednesday Addams' former school. It hadn’t even been a week before a rumor spread like wildfire: Tyler Galpin and Wednesday Addams were a couple. It didn’t matter whether it was true or not, whether she knew or not; the fact was that Wednesday was his, and he had no intention of correcting anyone.
It all started on his first day. The moment he crossed the building’s doors, the principal greeted him with a stiff expression and a severe gaze. However, his fingers drummed nervously against the desk, and he cleared his throat more than once before speaking.
“I hope you take advantage of this second chance, Galpin,” he said in a deep voice, trying to sound firm. “No one here should have to fear for their lives.”
Tyler smirked, leaning back casually in his chair as if he were enjoying a trivial conversation.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” he replied with feigned calm, though the amused glint in his eyes said otherwise.
The principal cleared his throat, awkwardly adjusting his tie. “We know who you are and what you did… or rather, what that thing inside you did. I don’t want any trouble in my school, Galpin. I don’t want a single incident that will have parents demanding explanations. If there’s… any sign that your ‘dark side’ resurfaces, I’ll take immediate action.”
Tyler let out a soft chuckle, leaning forward slightly. “Action? Like what? Calling the police? Because, in case you forgot, I already went through a trial and—surprise—I was acquitted of all charges.” He raised his hands in mock innocence. “Completely free of guilt, sir. A model citizen.”
The man swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. We don’t want a repeat of what happened in Jericho. I don’t want frightened students or parents demanding that we expel you. So do us all a favor and… keep yourself under control.”
Tyler tilted his head slightly, as if assessing prey. The way the principal tried to hold his gaze but failed was almost comical. No matter how many legal documents declared him innocent, to this man, he was still a monster.
“Oh, don’t worry, sir,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll do my best not to scare anyone. Though, of course, if someone is easily frightened… is that really my fault?”
The principal nodded stiffly, offering no response. His stare attempted to convey authority, but his tense posture and the way his hands gripped the desk betrayed him. And with that, the meeting was over.
They assigned him a guide, a boy named Jules… or maybe Jake… or perhaps Jack. Tyler didn’t remember, nor did he care. The guy talked too much, and his voice had an annoying pitch that barely registered in his mind.
Eventually, his guide led him to his locker and pointed at the number with an impersonal gesture, not even looking at him.
“This is yours. If you need anything, well… don’t ask me,” he muttered hurriedly before disappearing into the crowd, as if just being near Tyler was dangerous.
Tyler rolled his eyes and opened his locker. He didn’t rush. He took his time, organizing his belongings with the same meticulous patience someone would use to prepare an altar. And then, with an almost reverent motion, he pulled out a carefully preserved photograph and stuck it on the inside of the door.
It wasn’t just any picture. It was from the Raven. The one where he and Wednesday were together, captured in that fleeting moment when everything seemed almost perfect. Enid had taken it effortlessly, always eager to snap pictures with her phone. But getting Wednesday to agree to the photo had been another story.
Tyler had to beg, persuade her with endless arguments, and finally bribe her with the only currency that seemed effective: promising her all the quads she wanted, with no limit. Only then, after giving him her usual expression of boredom and exasperation, had she agreed to pose beside him.
A reflection of his obsession, his absurd, dark, and deeply rooted devotion.
His guide, who hadn’t yet moved far enough away, glanced casually inside the locker—and froze. His face went pale instantly, eyes widening in a mix of disbelief and barely concealed fear.
“Is that... Wednesday Addams?” he stammered, as if merely speaking her name conjured something sinister.
Tyler turned his head with an unsettling slowness, and when his gaze met the other boy’s, he smiled. But it wasn’t just any smile. It was dark, possessed—completely enthralled.
“Yes,” he whispered, his tone bordering on reverence. “My creepy, perfect girl.”
He said it with such conviction, with such unhinged, dangerous devotion, that the guide instinctively took a step back without even realizing it.
The rumor spread like wildfire through a dry forest. It only took a few to hear it before the entire school was convinced: Tyler Galpin and Wednesday Addams were a couple.
And, of course, he did nothing to correct them.
The very idea delighted him. The thought of everyone believing Wednesday was his wasn’t just convenient—it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Because, in his mind, she already belonged to him.
Wednesday Addams wasn’t the kind of person who faded from memory like a whisper. She remained, unyielding and cruel, like a thorn buried under the skin, a mark that couldn’t be erased. Wednesday didn’t slip through thoughts like something fleeting; she invaded them, claimed them, possessed them. She was a whirlwind of shadows, a fire that refused to die, a storm of black, bottomless eyes and words that cut deeper than any blade.
To Tyler, she wasn’t just unforgettable—she was inescapable, like a curse he had summoned with his own blood. From the moment their eyes met, from the instant her voice—cold and sharp as a dagger—brushed against his ears, he knew there was no salvation for him. Wednesday didn’t simply destroy. She ripped your heart out with a single, precise strike, sealed it in a glass jar, and left it there, still beating, just to watch each pulse fade away.
And he, damned by his own desires, wanted to be the heart in her collection.
Tyler hated himself for wanting her so much. But at the same time, he accepted it with an almost masochistic devotion.
If someone had to torment him, let it be her.
If someone had to break him, let it be her unwavering gaze, her voice dripping with sarcasm and disdain.
If someone was going to ruin him forever, let it be Wednesday, with her icy indifference, with the way she looked at him like he was nothing more than a broken tool, a disposable thing.
Because to Tyler, even the most unbearable pain would be worth it if it came from her. A single word, even a cruel one, was a gift he would secretly treasure in the deepest part of his shattered soul. A fleeting glance, even if laced with judgment or disgust, was enough to fuel his obsession.
He felt sick, but he didn’t want to be cured. He couldn’t be. Not when every part of Wednesday bewitched him like an ancient, forbidden spell—one he had no desire to escape from.
She was everything he shouldn’t want, and yet every fiber of his being ached for her.
He dreamed of her at night, in visions that tormented him as much as they filled him with ecstasy. Her eyes gleaming under the moonlight, her hair like a river of black ink, her pale skin cold as marble. He imagined her standing over him, the moon their only witness, as she looked down at him with that mix of disdain and curiosity. He wondered what it would be like to have her close—close enough to feel her breath against his neck, close enough to whisper his absolute surrender.
And sometimes, in those feverish dreams, Tyler fantasized about tearing his own heart out and offering it to her, still bleeding, in the palms of his hands.
Because that was what Wednesday had done to him—emptied him, filled him with her, and left him completely at her mercy.
He was hers, whether she accepted it or not. Whether she wanted him or not.
If she was a witch, as he suspected deep in his soul, then he was her darkest spell. She had cursed him without mercy, and he wanted nothing more than to remain her prisoner—for all eternity.
Thinking of their first and last kiss shattered him and, at the same time, made him feel alive. The softness of her full lips, the coldness of her skin against the warmth of her breath. Holding her in his arms had been ecstasy, a damnation, heaven and hell fused into a single moment.
That kiss ruined him for anyone else.
No matter how many times he tried to ignore it, his mind always circled back to the same thought:
Tyler only wanted Wednesday’s lips. And no one else’s.
Time passed, and though he tried to find a job, no one wanted to hire a boy once accused of multiple murders. Being acquitted meant nothing. To most people, his presence was a threat, a disaster waiting to happen.
And while he liked the idea of terrifying people—he still needed money.
He needed it because he had seen something that immediately made him think of Wednesday.
A typewriter that had once belonged to Daphne du Maurier. A relic. It was being sold for a small fortune, and the only thought that crossed his mind when he saw it was that Wednesday would love him terribly if he gave it to her.
So he had to get money. However he could.
The idea of a business came to him one afternoon when he hid behind the school to smoke and clear his head.
Laurel Gates had taken many things from Tyler Galpin—his freedom, his will, his humanity, his virginity—but she had also left him with something valuable: knowledge.
Among the many horrors he had endured under her guidance, he had absorbed information that now translated into an advantage. Botany, for instance. He had learned to recognize plants with unique properties, to extract active compounds, to manipulate nature with the precision of a surgeon. But the most important thing he had discovered was that there were entirely legal species that, if processed correctly, could mimic the effects of more popular drugs—without legal consequences.
He didn’t need marijuana when he could grow Klip Dagga, an orange flower that, when dried and smoked, offered a mild euphoria, a numbing tingle in the muscles, a lightness that could fool even the most seasoned user. The same was true for Sinicuichi, which induced a dreamy sensation, or Damiana, which relaxed the nerves like a whisper in the fog. These were substances forgotten by the modern world, hidden in dusty botany books—but to Tyler, they were a goldmine.
And that was when his first customer appeared.
A skater, the textbook stoner type—messy hair, a hoodie three sizes too big, worn-out sneakers that told stories of hundreds of failed tricks. Tyler watched him approach with the effortless ease of someone who had been born floating through life, untouched by fear or worry.
The boy squinted when he noticed the cigarette between Tyler’s fingers, the thick smoke curling lazily into the air.
“Hey, is that weed?” he asked with genuine interest.
Tyler exhaled slowly, letting the smoke escape his lips like a veiled invitation. Then he smirked, the kind of smirk that belonged to someone who knew something others didn’t.
“No, it’s Klip Dagga. I grow it myself.”
The skater frowned, clearly confused.
“Klip what?”
Tyler rolled the cigarette between his fingers, admiring the even burn of his creation.
“Stronger than weed and completely legal—because they haven’t figured out its effects when smoked yet.”
The boy clicked his tongue, intrigued. He wasn’t stupid. He knew dealers exaggerated, inflating their products with empty promises. But there was something about the way Tyler said it, the absolute calm with which he offered it, that made him hesitate.
Without another word, Tyler handed him the cigarette. A silent gesture, almost a challenge.
The skater took it cautiously before taking a long drag. He held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before exhaling slowly. A blink. Then another. His eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“Damn… it’s smoother than weed, but I definitely feel like I smoked half a joint in one hit.”
Tyler let out a low, satisfied laugh. He knew exactly what the kid was feeling—the tingling in his spine, the pleasant lightheadedness, the slow-building euphoria. The first time was always the most intense.
“Fifty bucks a gram. It’s not illegal, but the drying process takes time. If you’re interested, I can sell you one right now.”
The skater hesitated for a moment, but he was already convinced. He pulled out his phone and unlocked it with a swift motion.
“Do you take transfers?”
Tyler grinned.
At that exact moment, he saw it clearly—he had a business on his hands.
And so, Tyler’s Herb Emporium was born… though, in his defense, he promised himself he’d come up with a better name.
He knew the key to success wasn’t just exclusivity, but the perception of it. Not just anyone could access his merchandise. Only those who understood its value, who appreciated quality, who knew how to keep their mouths shut. He wasn’t selling out of necessity—he was selling out of strategy.
Researching new formulas wasn’t difficult. Before the police raided the Gates mansion and his father confiscated everything, Tyler had managed to salvage some of Laurel’s documents. Among them, he found enough information to replicate the effects of other substances using completely legal ingredients. It was all about precision—understanding exact dosages, knowing how to combine elements that, on their own, seemed harmless.
And the cover story was perfect. His psychiatrist had recommended occupational therapy, insisting that finding a hobby would help channel his energy in a healthier way. Tyler took the suggestion and sold his uncle on the idea of botany. Taking care of plants, he argued, would give him stability—something to focus on.
With that excuse, he secured permission to use the backyard as a garden.
And in that soil, more than just vegetation began to bloom.
The plants grew, demand increased, and the money started flowing.
All for a typewriter.
All for her.
Klip Dagga, Khat, Blue Lotus, Sinicuichi, Kratom, among others. Each of these herbs mimicked the effects of more popular drugs—marijuana, ecstasy, cocaine—without the risk of formal charges. They were legal substances, at least within the margins of the law. Tyler kept a small but loyal circle of clients. They didn’t just trust the quality of his product; they knew exactly what awaited them if they betrayed his trust.
No one in their right mind would rat him out.
Because everyone remembered Dalton Willis.
The idiot who had the terrible idea to challenge him.
The story was whispered through the hallways. Dalton, a moron with a hero complex, had made the worst mistake of his life at a party—right when Tyler was doing business. Not only had he dared to confront him, but in a moment of fleeting, stupid bravery, he had insulted Wednesday right in front of him.
“Psycho bitch.”
The Hyde inside him awakened instantly.
There was no need for a bloody spectacle—not even for a single blow. Tyler didn’t need explicit violence when fear was far more effective. A single look was enough. A slight transformation—the claws emerging, the fangs peeking from between his lips, the yellow glow of his eyes slicing through Dalton’s bravado.
The boy pissed himself in front of everyone.
Laughter filled the room. No one helped him. No one dared.
Dalton was still alive, sure. But after that night, he never showed up at another party.
And he definitely never said Wednesday’s name again.
Tyler was meticulous. Obsessive. Nothing in his business was left to chance because he knew luck was for the reckless—and he couldn’t afford to be reckless. He didn’t work with improvisation or questionable sources. Everything he offered went through a rigorous process of selection, extraction, and refinement—a system he had perfected with an almost pathological patience. If something bore his mark, it came with a guarantee: effectiveness, purity, and absolute precision.
Chemistry wasn’t just a subject he had once taken in school; it was his most powerful tool, his silent accomplice. He had always enjoyed chemistry because, at its core, it was methodical, almost artistic—a kind of pastry-making for the obsessives. His experiments had started with the innocence of an oven and a recipe book but had evolved into something much darker and far more profitable. Laurel had taught him how to manipulate plants, how to understand their essence beyond the obvious, and Tyler had absorbed that knowledge like a sponge. Now, precision was his signature.
He didn’t sell randomly. He didn’t tolerate disorder or ignorance. If someone wanted to buy from him, they first had to prove they knew what they were doing, that they understood what they were looking for. He had no interest in impulsive newbies or idiots who just wanted to “experiment.” Tyler was blunt in his terms, direct to the point of being offensive, because he refused to babysit stupidity. Every sale came with a warning, cold and precise as he was:
“If you don’t know how to use it, don’t buy from me. If you’re dumb enough to overdose, don’t come crying to me. I don’t save idiots.”
That was what set him apart. His reputation wasn’t just built on the quality of what he sold, but on his brutal honesty. He knew that every herb, every extract he prepared, could be a doorway to pleasure or disaster, and he made sure his clients understood the difference. If someone crossed the line, it wasn’t his problem. Tyler wasn’t a savior, much less a babysitter. He was a perfectionist who knew exactly what he was doing—and he expected the same from those who bought from him.
To him, his business was more than just a transaction. It was an art. A science. Proof that even in chaos, he could find order. And if that meant being ruthless, even better.
Respect was earned through precision, not sympathy.
He couldn’t be bought.
He didn’t accept haggling.
And no one—absolutely no one—got credit with him.
It didn’t matter how much they begged, how much they groveled, what sob stories they told him about money troubles, or what ridiculous promises they made to try and sweeten him up. If they didn’t have cash in hand, there was no deal. No exceptions.
Not even when they tried tempting him in other ways.
And many had tried.
They saw him as a challenge, a prize hard to win, the mysterious guy that, for some reason, no one seemed able to catch. Some thought a plunging neckline or a skirt that was just a little too short would make him cave. Others were more subtle, softening their voices, drawing out their words with exaggerated flirtation.
“Tyler, I’m sure we can work something out…”
They accompanied their words with a fingertip tracing along his arm, with a calculated gaze, with smiles that made it clear they weren’t just talking business. They bit their lips, tilted their heads in a rehearsed manner, making sure their hair fell strategically over their shoulders.
Some were even more persistent. They clung to him in the hallways, whispered things in his ear, giggled as they—accidentally—dropped something just so they could bend over in front of him, showing more than they should. Some followed him after class, trying to "coincidentally" end up in the same places, brushing their arms against his, testing how close they could get before he pulled away.
And then there were the ones who didn’t bother with pretense. The ones who came on to him with no subtlety at all.
“We can make a deal, handsome. Just tell me what you need from me.”
Fingers sliding down his chest, breath too close, expensive perfume saturating the air.
Pathetic.
The disdain in his eyes was unmistakable. He didn’t bother hiding it, didn’t soften his tone or offer polite responses.
“You’re not as attractive as you think.”
He watched them tense, offended, but he carried on with his business as if they were nothing more than irrelevant insects. If they insisted, if they actually believed they could tempt him, he was even crueler.
“You think I care about what you’re offering? Not even if you paid me.”
There was no sweetness in his voice, no room for them to mistake his rejection for simple indifference. No second chances.
It never worked.
He wasn’t a desperate teenager, wasn’t a guy ruled by hormonal impulses or the need for validation.
They weren’t Wednesday.
They weren’t even a shadow of her.
And sex didn’t put money in his pocket.
To him, it was a waste of time.
There was only one person in the world who had the power to make him lose control. And it wasn’t any of them.
Convincing people that botany was something positive had never been difficult for Tyler. He had a natural charisma, a talent for manipulating perceptions—something he had perfected both in his normal life and his secret one. He didn’t just sell herbs; he sold a concept, an idea that even the most skeptical found themselves drawn to. Talking about plants wasn’t just talking about chemicals or effects—Tyler presented them as a form of healing, an almost mystical, forgotten art that deserved to be rediscovered.
“Plants have memory,” he would say, with a warm smile that seemed genuine. “They know how to adapt, how to survive… how to heal. It’s not just science—it’s poetry.”
And it worked.
It was easy to believe the image he projected.
To adults, Tyler was a brilliant young man, a story of perseverance. His teachers admired him. He was methodical, dedicated, passionate—especially in biology and chemistry, where he always had the right answer or an insightful observation that impressed even the toughest professors. He was seen as a role model, someone who, despite a troubled past, had chosen the right path.
His therapist—either too gullible or simply too exhausted—had completely bought the lie that Tyler found solace in plants.
“It helps me process the trauma,” he’d say in a firm voice, though never quite meeting their eyes. “It reminds me that something can still grow… even in the ashes.”
It was a line so perfectly crafted that, every now and then, even he almost believed it.
Samuel Galpin, Tyler’s paternal uncle, was a pragmatic man—someone who valued hard work and discretion. As the owner of the local drive-in theater, he had spent most of his life running his business with a predictable, quiet routine. When he took Tyler in after everything that had happened in Jericho, it was more out of a sense of familial obligation than anything else. He knew enough about the boy’s past to have some reservations, but he had also learned that people deserved a second chance. So when he started seeing Tyler spend hours in the small backyard garden, hunched over the soil with an almost feverish focus, he thought that maybe—just maybe—the kid was actually finding a purpose.
From his kitchen window, Samuel watched him in silence. There was something therapeutic about the way Tyler cared for every leaf, every stem, with a patience that seemed almost unreal for someone his age. He could spend hours under the sun or even in the rain, his hands covered in dirt, his expression shifting between calm and obsession.
“It’s good for him,” Samuel told himself, convinced that this new interest was a way of leaving behind the horrors of Jericho and the shadow of Laurel Gates—that woman who had done so much harm to the boy.
Tyler was careful with what he said. He had learned to weave his lies with precision, just enough to make them sound like half-truths.
“Plants help me focus,” he once told his uncle while carefully packaging tea bags at the kitchen table. “It’s kind of like meditation. Besides, I’ve been experimenting with artisanal teas. I think I could sell them at some point.”
The trick was in the details.
Tyler really did make teas—just enough for the house to be filled with the sweet, herbal aroma that reinforced the illusion of an innocent hobby. He had even designed labels for the packaging: Tyler's Herb Emporium – Artisanal Teas for the Body and Soul. The way he had built the façade was almost comical in its precision, but it worked.
Samuel saw the neatly arranged bags in the pantry, their soft colors and creative names like Serene Slumber or Green Vitality, and never suspected a thing.
What Samuel didn’t know was that those same packages served as covers for something far more profitable. The teas were real, yes, but they were only a small part of what Tyler was actually distributing.
In a hidden compartment inside his room, Tyler stored his real merchandise: hallucinogenic herbs and carefully crafted blends that he sold to certain students at Nancy Reagan High School. He had perfected his process to an almost professional level, extracting active components with scientific precision and ensuring that everything he sold was of the highest quality.
When Tyler packed his herbs into the same bags he used for tea, he did it with the same meticulous attention to detail he applied to his garden. Every bag was carefully labeled, sealed, and ready to be distributed under the guise of an innocent product. His customers knew the difference, of course, but to anyone outside the circle, they were just artisanal teas.
The strategy worked flawlessly.
Samuel, always busy with the drive-in theater and confident in his nephew’s apparent transformation, had no reason to suspect anything. In fact, he often praised Tyler for his dedication.
“It’s good to see you focused on something positive,” he said one evening over dinner. “Your father would be proud.”
Tyler smiled with a kindness that almost seemed genuine, but inside, he knew those words dripped with irony.
Samuel didn’t know the truth—and he never would.
To him, Tyler was the boy who had overcome a complicated past, a kid with a talent for botany and a passion for artisanal teas. The façade was flawless, and Tyler made sure to keep it that way.
However, even in the midst of his double life, there were moments when Tyler found something real in what he did.
When he was in his garden, surrounded by leaves and damp soil, he could feel a kind of calm. It wasn’t redemption—not even close—but it was a reprieve.
The irony wasn’t lost on him: the very place where he cultivated his underground business was also the only place where he could silence the echoes of his past.
And maybe, on some deep level, not everything was a lie.
There was something real in Tyler’s connection to plants.
When he was in his garden, surrounded by green leaves, the damp earth clinging to his hands, roots tangled between his fingers, something in his mind quieted. It was the only time he could shut out the echo of the Gates mansion—the screams in the walls, the chains that had bound his body and soul.
Among the plants, the whispers of Laurel in his mind—always lurking—faded.
The garden was his sanctuary, a space where the invisible scars of his past could disappear, even if only for a few moments.
For a few minutes, he could pretend he was really healing.
But they were just that—minutes.
When reality set back in, he knew exactly who he was and what he did.
He wasn’t just the model student or the kind nephew who helped out at the drive-in.
To the students at his school, he was something else entirely—the strict dealer, the guy who didn’t tolerate idiots, and who, despite his rigid rules, provided products that couldn’t be found anywhere else.
No one really knew how he did it or where those flawless herbs came from, but everyone knew one thing for sure: Tyler Galpin didn’t leave room for mistakes.
To some, he was simply the monster boy—a shadow of his past that echoed in whispers among the adults who still remembered the headlines from Jericho. But those same adults, seeing him now, described him as a kind, reserved young man, someone who had learned from his mistakes.
Wasn’t he, after all, the one giving talks on the value of resilience in science class?
Wasn’t he the student who put the most effort into group projects?
Tyler walked a tightrope between two worlds, and he did so with chilling precision. Every smile, every carefully chosen word was part of a performance. But deep down, among the dirt and roots, in the solitude of his garden, he found fragments of something resembling peace. It wasn’t healing—not really. But it was a reprieve, just enough to keep going.
His reunion with Wednesday didn’t happen until Christmas when she returned home for the holidays. Tyler would never admit it, not even to himself, but more than once, his steps had led him—almost as if by unconscious reflex—toward the Addams mansion. He never got close enough to be seen, never even tried to justify it. He just stood there, at a distance, hands in his pockets, hood pulled low over his face, watching the gothic structure that, in some way, reminded him of her.
Her.
Every crack in the old walls, every vine climbing the iron railings, every shadow cast on the stone spoke of Wednesday. He didn’t need to see her step outside to feel that she was still close. He didn’t need to hear her voice to know that her existence was the only thing that truly mattered.
But the reality was that, for now, she was far away. And he had work to do.
The day before Christmas, Tyler had only one priority: converting all his cash into digital funds. If he wanted to buy that typewriter, he had to make sure every cent was in his account. The goal was clear, and there was no room for mistakes: $22,800.
But as he made his final calculations, a frustrated growl escaped his lips.
“Shit. I’m short $3,000.”
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. There was no reason to panic. He knew what he was doing—he was in control. He was always in control. He switched his mind into the cold, systematic logic that guided him through every transaction.
If there was one thing Tyler Galpin understood perfectly, it was how to run a business.
He grabbed the stack of bills, sealing them carefully in a bag before heading out. The trip to the bank was quick, weaving through the crowd with the same precision he used to navigate his market. He didn’t stand out, didn’t attract more attention than necessary. He knew when to be invisible and when to shine.
As he stepped into the bank, he adjusted his expression. He put on his best angel face—the one that disarmed people, the one that made him seem harmless. With confident steps, he approached the counter, where Betty, a middle-aged woman, greeted him with her usual sugary smile.
He took a slow breath. Kept his composure.
With flawless ease, he handed her a small bag of valerian tea. People always fell for little acts of kindness. Maintaining the façade was part of the business.
“Hi, Betty. I’m here to make a deposit, and I brought you a little gift.”
The woman’s eyes lit up as she took the package with an overly grateful expression.
“Oh, Tyler, sweetheart, you’re such a doll.”
Sweetheart.
The word hit him like a goddamn hammer.
His jaw clenched. His knuckles turned white from the pressure in his hands, but his face remained perfectly composed, the smile unshaken.
That word. That damn word.
Laurel used to call him that. Laurel used to manipulate him with that poisoned sweetness, that syrupy tone that made him sick. The mere idea of someone else addressing him that way made his stomach churn.
But Betty wasn’t to blame. She had no idea what it did to him.
So, like the good actor he was, he ignored the revulsion crawling under his skin and stayed in character.
“How much are you depositing today?” the woman asked as she typed on the computer.
“$19,800 into my account, please.”
He slid the stack of bills across the counter with practiced ease.
Her eyes widened in surprise.
“That’s a lot of money, Tyler. Did you really make all this selling tea?”
He laughed naturally, as if the idea of being just a simple tea vendor genuinely amused him.
“Yes, and also by being smart with my expenses.”
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice in a calculated act.
“I’m saving up to buy a gift for my girl. She’s a writer, and I saw a typewriter that my Wednesday would absolutely love. I’m just a little short on the money.”
His Wednesday.
He could say her name, and no one would suspect the obsession running through his veins. No one would know that, to him, Wednesday Addams was more than just a person—she was his religion, his damnation, his only real need.
Betty sighed, visibly touched.
“That’s so sweet, Tyler. I wish you the best of luck.”
He smiled—the kind of smile that disarmed people. The kind of smile that made sure no one questioned things too much.
He walked out of the bank with the certainty that everything was going according to plan.
His phone buzzed with a notification.
Dylan Morris: Party at my place tonight. Only the school’s elite. Bring your products—you’ll make good money.
Tyler stared at the screen for a moment. Then, he smiled with satisfaction.
Tonight, he would get the rest of the money.
His encounter with Wednesday happened at the party…
Wednesday Addams had never paid much attention to her appearance beyond what was necessary. Her wardrobe consisted of the same monochromatic palette as always, her hair never knew any form other than her two perfect braids, and makeup was something that rarely crossed her mind.
But that night, as she looked at herself in the mirror, she knew she was crossing a line.
The dress was the boldest piece she owned, something she had never even considered wearing until now. It clung to her torso with the firmness of a corset, hugging her figure with unsettling precision. The neckline was lower than she was used to—subtle, yet enough to make her feel exposed, as if she were bending her own rules without truly breaking them. It wasn’t vulgar or excessive, but it was just enough to mark a difference. The skirt fell to the middle of her thighs, light, with an almost imperceptible sway that moved with her in an eerily hypnotic way.
The black stockings clung to her legs like a second skin, an extension of her own darkness. They weren’t just an accessory; they were a part of her—a reminder that despite the concessions she was making that night, she was still Wednesday Addams. The high-heeled boots added a touch of dominance, elevating her with dangerous elegance. They weren’t comfortable, but they didn’t need to be. They were a weapon, a symbol of power that resonated in every step she took.
Her hair, for the first time in what felt like forever, was not tied into her usual braids. Instead, she wore a crown of them, a more elaborate style that revealed her face with unusual sharpness. Her porcelain skin contrasted strikingly against her makeup. Her eyes, darkened with smoky shadows, looked like endless voids—more lethal than usual. And her lips… blood red. Not just any red, but a deep, intense crimson—like the promise of a forbidden sin.
She studied herself in the mirror, searching for any sign of weakness, of hesitation. She found none.
It wasn’t vanity that drove her. It wasn’t the need to be seen.
This was strategy. A disguise as carefully chosen as any of her calculated decisions.
If she was going to infiltrate the party and unmask the mysterious dealer, she needed to blend in.
But there was something more. Something she didn’t want to admit.
This wasn’t just a game.
It wasn’t just a mission.
It was an act of defiance against herself.
The rumor of a dealer at Nancy Reagan High School had reached her by accident—a passing comment she had overheard during her holiday break at home. She had been intrigued immediately—not by the substances themselves (those were irrelevant to her) but by the mystery. Solving puzzles was her favorite pastime, and her obsession with uncovering the identity of this unknown dealer had become the perfect distraction to keep her from thinking about him.
Tyler.
That damn name she couldn’t get out of her head.
The Frump curse mocked her with every beat of her heart. Her one great obsession, her most exquisite torment. She hated him. She needed him.
And she had to find a way to erase him from her system before he became her undoing.
And so, here she was, dressed in a way that wasn’t her, with the sole purpose of diving into a dangerous game.
A disguise.
A lie woven from threads of dark fabric and lips of poison.
She adjusted the sleeves of her dress, took a deep breath, and turned with unwavering determination.
The party was waiting for her.
Tyler was comfortably sunk into the couch at Dylan’s house—his base of operations whenever one of these parties took place. His position in the market was clear: one gram, two grams, however much they wanted, he had the product, and soon, he would have all the money he needed. He sold without rush, at ease, enjoying the atmosphere.
The best thing about these gatherings was that the clientele knew the rules: no one tried to cheat him, no one expected discounts, and, of course, no one dared to ask for credit.
Well, almost no one.
Sometimes, there were exceptions. Like the girl standing in front of him now, speaking in a high-pitched, shrill voice that drilled into his ears. He watched her with disinterest as she leaned toward him—too close, too persistent.
“Tyler, I was thinking…” she began, drawing out her words with a fake sweetness that churned his stomach.
Tyler arched a brow, letting out a dry, humorless laugh. “You can think?”
The sarcasm in his tone made her blink, but she wasn’t easily intimidated. In her mind, she probably still believed she was in control.
“If you give me two grams of kratom,” she continued, inching even closer, lips forming a practiced pout, “I could, you know… satisfy your needs.”
And as if the situation wasn’t already ridiculous enough, she had the audacity to slide onto her knees between his legs, positioning herself strategically between him and the coffee table. Her short dress left little to the imagination, her perfume was strong, sickly sweet—an unsubtle attempt at seduction that only filled Tyler with profound disgust.
He raised a hand to his forehead and, without the slightest effort, shoved her away with a firm, dry motion. She lost her balance and fell backward with a startled gasp.
“No money, no drugs,” Tyler said coldly, settling back onto the couch with feigned patience. “Either you pay, or you get out of my sight.”
Shock flickered across her face like a passing shadow. Her lips parted as if to protest, but the moment her eyes met Tyler’s, whatever determination she had crumbled like a house of cards. She huffed, caught between frustration and embarrassment, but need was stronger than pride.
With jerky movements, she slid two hundred-dollar bills from the neckline of her tight dress and held them out to him, her hand trembling slightly.
Tyler didn’t rush. With the patience of a predator that knows its prey is already trapped, he took the money and inspected it meticulously, running it between his fingers as if he could detect any attempt at deception just by touch. Satisfied, he pulled out a small bag with the promised contents and let it drop into her hand without a word.
She snatched it up like it burned, her humiliation evident in every tense line of her face. She spun on her heels and stormed off, muttering curses under her breath but not daring to say them aloud.
Tyler watched her disappear into the crowd with the same indifference he would give to smoke dissipating in the air. He let out a long sigh, and just as he was about to lean back into the couch, his body tensed.
A familiar scent drifted through the air.
Black coffee. Ebony. Dark roses.
His jaw clenched, his pulse betraying him with its sudden acceleration. His gaze sharpened, scanning the room with the precision of a hunter, guided by both scent and instinct.
And then, he saw her.
Wednesday Addams.
Macabre and magnificent, wrapped in a black dress that looked like it was made for sin. The neckline, modest compared to the party’s usual trends, was still low enough to capture his attention. The skirt ended at mid-thigh, revealing pale skin covered by black stockings that accentuated every line of her figure. Her lips were painted a deep, blood-red—the kind of color Tyler wanted to kiss away, to stain with the shadow of his own obsession.
But she didn’t see him.
She was there, only a few feet away, but her gaze was fixed on something else. On someone else. Her brow was furrowed, her expression that of a hunter deep in investigation.
He recognized that look. He had seen it countless times in Jericho, in Nevermore—every time her mind fixated on a mystery.
And, goddamn it, it made her even sexier.
Tyler gritted his teeth. He couldn’t afford this. Not now.
Before his will could waver, some guy approached her with the kind of arrogant confidence Tyler despised. He didn’t know him, but the guy had that unmistakable aura of privilege.
Rich. Entitled. The kind of person who thought the world owed him something just for being born.
"Do you have fentanyl?" the guy asked with a mocking grin, as if the question were part of some inside joke only he was in on.
Tyler barely blinked. "I don’t sell synthetic drugs."
His tone was neutral but sharp. He had no intention of letting his reputation be tainted by substances that killed with a single miscalculated dose. He didn’t sell poison—he sold experiences.
"I sell herbs and plant extracts that mimic the effects of certain drugs," he continued, pulling out a small plastic vial filled with a deep blue liquid. "The closest thing to fentanyl is Blue Lotus Fruit."
The guy narrowed his eyes, intrigued.
"And what does it do exactly?"
"Mix it with alcohol, and you’ll have an incredible astral trip."
A spark of interest flickered in the stranger’s gaze. Greed gleamed in his smile as he reached for the vial with the ease of someone who had always gotten what they wanted.
"Well, I’m interested. How about I take this one for free to try it out, and I’ll pay for the next one?"
Tyler moved before the idiot could even touch the vial. He tucked it back into his jacket with a swiftness that made it clear he wasn’t about to entertain such stupidity.
Then, without warning, he bared his fangs.
It was brief but enough. His eyes flashed yellow, raw threat vibrating in every fiber of his body.
"I don’t do gifts, discounts, or credit," he growled, his voice not entirely human. "You either pay my price, or you get lost."
The guy swallowed hard, his face draining of color.
"That’ll be 250 dollars," Tyler continued, not breaking eye contact. "It’s not a cheap substance to prepare. Pay up or disappear."
The other man blinked, his arrogance evaporating in seconds.
"Uhh… y-yeah, yeah… I’ll take two," he stammered, fumbling to pull out the money with trembling hands.
Tyler took the bills without haste, counting them meticulously before sliding the vials into the guy’s sweaty palm.
Without wasting another second, the man spun around and nearly sprinted away, vanishing into the crowd as if he had just seen a ghost.
Tyler relaxed slightly, leaning back against the couch with the air of someone who had just handled a minor inconvenience.
But then, he felt it.
A gaze piercing through his skin.
He lifted his eyes.
And there she was.
Wednesday Addams, motionless, watching him from a distance with an expression impossible to decipher. Her dark eyes, cold as the night and deep as a bottomless well, were locked onto him. She had seen everything. Every word, every transaction, every gesture.
But there was no judgment on her face. Not yet.
Tyler felt the air turn heavy in his lungs.
He had spent months trying to erase her from his memory—drowning her in smoke and distractions, convincing himself he had finally torn her from his mind.
But there she was, like divine punishment, more breathtaking than he could ever remember, her black dress hugging her body in a way that made his fists clench.
She was so damn tempting.
Her pale skin stood in stark contrast against the dark fabric, every curve accentuated in a way that made him ache. The corset molded her bust with cruel precision, the neckline revealing just enough to leave him starving. The skirt ended mid-thigh, allowing him to see the contrast between the softness of her skin and the black stockings covering her legs like an invitation to lose himself in them.
And her lips…
Blood red. A deep, sinful shade.
He felt trapped between desire and rage.
But the worst part was when she moved.
Wednesday averted her gaze with calculated indifference and, with a chilling composure, stepped toward the dance floor.
It was obvious she was pretending to ignore him, acting as if his presence meant nothing.
But Tyler knew her too well.
She wasn’t ignoring him. She was torturing him.
He watched as she stopped among the crowd and, against all logic, began moving to the rhythm of the music.
It wasn’t a dark, melancholic melody like the ones she usually enjoyed—it was a banal, mundane song, the kind she used to despise.
But she didn’t care.
Because in that moment, Wednesday Addams decided to become the damned embodiment of temptation.
Her body moved with a sensuality that stole his breath away.
She ran her hands down her own arms, gliding over her skin slowly before lowering them to her waist, tracing the curve of her hips with a maddeningly provocative rhythm. She turned just enough to offer him a tantalizing view of her back, of the delicate arch of her narrow waist, of the way the fabric of her dress clung to her figure like a second skin.
Tyler felt his mouth go dry.
He watched as she slid her hands over her abdomen, teasing the hem of her skirt, lowering her lashes with studied languidness as she turned slowly, putting herself on display without even looking at him.
And yet, he knew she was doing it for him.
Because even from a distance, even without touching him, he could see the challenge in her stance. The provocation in every damn movement.
She wanted to make him suffer.
Make him burn.
And fuck, she was succeeding.
Desire hit him like a punch to the chest.
His mind screamed at him to get up, to cross the damned room, to take her in his arms and put an end to this game once and for all. To claim her in the middle of this decadent party, to erase the space between them with his lips, with his hands, with his tongue tracing every inch of her skin.
But he couldn’t move.
He was trapped on that couch, every muscle tense, jaw clenched, watching as she destroyed him with every sway of her hips. Every twist, every calculated undulation of her body was a direct hit to his self-control, every stroke of her hands over her own skin a merciless taunt.
And the worst part was that she knew it.
He saw it in the way she barely tilted her head, in the fleeting, mischievous glint in her dark eyes before she pretended not to see him.
But she did see him. She felt him.
She was playing with him, savoring every second of his torment.
And Tyler hated it as much as he adored it.
He needed something to calm him down.
With stiff fingers, he rummaged through his products until he found a lavender and damiana cigarette. He brought it to his lips, lighting it with calculated slowness, inhaling the smoke in the hope that it would extinguish the fire raging inside him.
But it didn’t.
Because Wednesday kept dancing.
Because she knew.
She knew exactly what she was doing to him. She knew his eyes were devouring her from across the room, that every inhale he took was a failed attempt to control himself, that every drag of smoke was an excuse not to lunge at her, not to do exactly what his body was demanding him to do.
And that certainty, that delicious certainty, aroused her.
She could feel the heat pooling between her thighs, the sweet pressure in her belly every time she caught him staring at her like he wanted to rip her clothes off with his teeth.
Wednesday’s lips parted slightly, her breathing slowed, deepened, as she let the music take over her movements.
This wasn’t just a dance.
This wasn’t just a provocation.
This was an act of war, a dangerous game where every step, every brush of her hands over her own body, was a challenge.
Because she wanted him, just as fiercely as he wanted her.
And that shared hunger was what made this torment so exquisite.
The air was thick with tension. The pressure, unbearable.
Wednesday let her hands glide over her arms with an almost lazy sensuality, as if she were discovering her own skin for the first time—but it was for him. Always for him.
She ran her palms up to her neck, stroking it with the tips of her fingers before trailing down her collarbone, savoring the feel of her own skin against her black-painted nails. She let them drift down to the edge of her corset, tracing it with a slow, deliberate motion, as if she were about to unfasten it, as if she were going to shed the fabric right then and there, in front of everyone.
And Tyler leaned forward before he even realized it.
The lavender cigarette trembled between his fingers.
Fuck.
But Wednesday didn’t stop.
She ran her hands over her abdomen, caressing every curve of her body with a touch so ethereal, so intoxicating, that Tyler felt like he couldn’t breathe.
The hem of her dress lifted just slightly as her fingers played at its edge, revealing more skin than she should, just enough to tempt him, just enough to make him suffer.
He could imagine his hands in place of hers.
He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers, the way her breath would hitch if he touched her the way she was touching herself now.
And it was driving him insane.
Because Wednesday knew.
She saw it in his eyes, in the way his chest rose and fell with each ragged breath.
She saw it in how he didn’t even blink, too consumed by the vision she was offering him.
For a moment, Wednesday wanted to be cruel.
She wanted to walk up to him, to slide between his legs and settle in his lap with the same delicate ease that shadows caress the moon.
She wanted to see his reaction when her weight settled over him, when her breath ghosted over his neck, when her lips were close enough to tempt him but not close enough to grant him the pleasure of tasting them.
She wanted to make him suffer.
She wanted to watch him teeter on the edge of reason and madness.
But not yet.
She wanted to push him further.
She wanted to see how far she could take him—before he broke completely.
So she kept dancing.
She raised her arms, stretching them above her head, arching her back in a movement so provocative that Tyler had to suppress a growl. The pose only accentuated her neckline further, making the shape of her breasts more pronounced beneath the tight fabric of her corset. And then, she let her eyelids drop, pretending not to see him.
But she felt him.
She felt his hunger, his restrained desperation, his desire twisted into pure agony. Wednesday traced her own thighs with her fingers, sliding them upward in a slow, delicious provocation, as if she were exploring the touch of an invisible lover.
And Tyler nearly broke.
Because fuck, she looked so damn delectable, so utterly made to be taken, to be devoured. She was like a forbidden fruit dangling before him, dripping with poisonous sweetness, waiting for him to pluck her from her cursed tree and make her his.
He bit his lip hard, digging his nails into his own palm in a pathetic attempt to hold himself together. His breathing was a mess, his thoughts a chaotic tangle in which only she existed.
Wednesday.
Her pale skin glowing under the dim lights, her hair gathered into that damned crown of braids that made her look even more like a dark queen, her blood-red lips slightly parted in an expression that was a sin in itself.
She was his damnation.
And she was enjoying every second of it.
But Tyler couldn't move.
He couldn't do anything but watch, trapped on that fucking couch like a chained predator forced to witness its prey dancing just out of reach.
His skin burned, his patience unraveled, his self-control hung by a thread that she was more than willing to cut.
He knew that if she came closer, if she so much as brushed against his skin, he wouldn't be able to answer for what he’d do.
Because Wednesday had pushed him too far.
And he was no longer sure he could hold himself back.
But he couldn't move.
He couldn't do anything but watch, drowning in an agony he had never experienced before.
Wednesday was destroying him.
And the worst part was that she relished it.
He could feel it in the air, in the thick, electric charge between them, in the way Tyler barely breathed, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers, burning down slowly without him even noticing.
He was drowning in her.
And Wednesday had no intention of throwing him a lifeline.
She lowered one hand, tracing her stomach with an unhurried touch, following the curve of her waist until she reached the hem of her skirt.
She saw the way Tyler’s muscles tensed beneath his leather jacket, the way his eyes locked onto her every movement, utterly incapable of looking away.
So she lifted the fabric—just a little.
A subtle shift, just enough to leave more of her thighs exposed, just enough to extend the illusion of bare skin a little further.
It wasn’t much.
Not enough to reveal anything truly forbidden.
But it was suggestive enough to make Tyler let out a low, guttural growl—a sound that sent a pleasurable shiver down Wednesday’s spine.
She had him teetering on the edge of the abyss.
And she wanted to push him a little further.
She let her fingers toy with the hem of her skirt, as if she were about to lift it higher, as if, at any moment, she might finally show him what he ached to see.
But she didn’t.
Because the game wasn’t about giving him what he wanted.
It was about seeing how much he could take before he broke.
Tyler didn’t blink.
His jaw was tight, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath his leather jacket, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles had turned white.
The way he looked at her was wild, as if he was one second away from closing the distance between them and devouring her right then and there, with no regard for who might be watching.
His chest rose and fell with ragged restraint, as if he were at war with himself, fighting not to react too soon.
But Wednesday knew he wouldn’t.
Because he refused to lose control first.
Because he hated that she had the power.
And she did.
Until someone else stepped into the scene.
A hand appeared on her waist out of nowhere—warm and unfamiliar—and Wednesday felt a body press against hers from behind.
She didn’t need to turn around to know it was a guy.
She didn’t need to look at him to know he was someone too stupid to realize he had just sealed his own fate.
His breath brushed against her ear as he slurred in a thick voice,
—Damn, baby… You move so good, I couldn’t resist.
Wednesday’s gaze turned to ice.
Did this idiot have a death wish?
The pressure on her waist tightened. Then, he tried to pull her closer, his fingers sliding down her side with far too much confidence, as if he had some kind of right to her body.
As if she belonged to anyone who dared to touch her.
But she didn’t.
She never would.
And if anyone had the right to claim her, it sure as hell wasn’t him.
It was Tyler Galpin.
And he was watching everything.
Wednesday felt the anger in the air before she even turned around.
The searing rage.
The silent threat.
The murderous aura radiating from the corner where Tyler sat.
But this time, Tyler wouldn’t be the first to act.
Because this time, she wasn’t going to wait for someone else to handle her problem.
Wednesday Addams didn’t need anyone to defend her.
She let the guy believe he had won for one more second. Just one.
Then she moved.
In a single, fluid motion, she grabbed the idiot’s wrist with a strength that shouldn’t have been possible for someone her size—and twisted it at such a painful angle that he let out a startled grunt.
—What the hell…?
Wednesday turned slowly to face him, without letting go.
Her gaze was a black void. No mercy. No emotion.
But her voice…
Her voice was a blade sliding across ice.
—Who gave you permission to touch me?
The guy blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in control. As if he couldn’t comprehend that the tiny girl in front of him was the one in charge.
He tried to pull his hand free, but Wednesday only squeezed harder.
—I asked you a question, who gave you permission to touch me? —she repeated, her tone even colder.
He swallowed.
—Hey, I just… I didn’t know you were with someone, baby. Chill.
The air grew heavy.
Baby.
A stupid, empty word that made her lip curl in disgust.
—If you think my relationship status has anything to do with this, then your brain is even more primitive than I thought.
Her grip turned into a steel trap. The guy whimpered as she forced his tendons beyond their limit.
—Hurts, doesn’t it? —Wednesday whispered, tilting her head with clinical interest— Now imagine how I felt when you decided your entertainment mattered more than my consent.
He was trembling now.
He tried to break free again, but Wednesday shoved him back hard. Hard enough to make him stumble and drop to his knees.
The entire room held its breath.
And in that precise moment, the sharp scrape of a chair against the floor echoed through the silence.
Because Tyler stood up.
His leather jacket shifted with him as he moved, each step heavy and deliberate.
Wednesday didn’t take her eyes off the guy on the floor.
But she felt Tyler approaching.
She knew the exact moment he reached her side.
Because the idiot on the ground wore an expression of pure panic.
—Chill, man— the guy stammered, raising his hands as if that could save him— I didn’t know she was your girl…
Tyler smiled.
And it was the coldest, emptiest smile anyone could have seen.
—My girl?
His tone was soft.
Too soft.
Dangerously soft.
Wednesday let out a sigh.
—How pathetic— she murmured— You’re the perfect example of everything wrong with men like you.
The guy looked at her, breathing erratically.
—W-What do you mean?
Wednesday tilted her head, the same way she might while observing a lab rat in an experiment.
—First, you touched me without my consent.
Second, you thought my lack of interest was something you could just ignore.
Third, when faced with the consequences, you tried to excuse yourself by using another man as your justification.
She leaned in a little closer, watching him shrink back.
—Where’s your confidence now?— she whispered venomously— Where’s the guy who thought he could put his hands on me without consequences?
The guy didn’t answer.
Because he knew that any word would only sink him further.
Wednesday straightened, shaking her head.
—You’re not even worth it.
She turned to leave.
But Tyler didn’t.
He crouched in front of the guy and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him so hard that his knuckles turned white.
—You’re lucky she decided to be merciful— he murmured with deadly calm— Because if it were up to me, you’d be on the ground begging for the teeth you’d be missing.
The guy swallowed thickly.
And then, without a word, they both smiled.
The guy shook.
Tyler could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell rapidly, in the way cold sweat began to bead on his forehead.
—I swear on my fucking life I’ll make you wish you were never born.
His other hand clenched into a fist.
One punch.
One single move, and this idiot would be on the floor, bleeding, bones shattered.
But just as Tyler was about to do it, a slender arm slipped between him and his target, pressing gently against his chest.
Wednesday.
The touch was an anchor in the middle of the storm of his rage.
She didn’t need to say his name.
She didn’t need to speak a single word.
Her touch was enough to freeze him in place.
Tyler looked down and found her dark eyes locked onto his.
There was no fear in them.
No surprise, no anger.
There was only a clear message, a silent reminder of something Tyler had almost forgotten in his blind fury:
If he hit this guy, if he really hurt him, if he crossed that line…
He could lose her again.
The heat of Wednesday’s hand against his chest was a reminder of her absolute control over him—something that thrilled and terrified him in equal measure.
She didn’t need to raise her voice.
She didn’t need to shout or make a scene.
She only needed to exist for the world around her to bend to her will.
Wednesday tilted her head slightly, her crown of braids glinting under the dim light.
—Let him go, Tyler,— she ordered, her tone unwavering— He’s not worth it.
Tyler took a deep breath.
The knuckles of his free hand were white from the pressure.
He knew she was right.
But the anger still burned in his blood.
Wednesday saw his hesitation and pressed her arm a little firmer against his chest, her touch cold but undeniably present.
And then, she leaned in closer, her lips just inches from his ear.
—If you kill him, I won’t be able to forgive you,— she whispered, her voice as soft and sharp as the edge of a knife.
And that was what stopped him completely.
Because Tyler could live with many things. He could bear the guilt of being a monster. He could deal with his rage, his darkness, with the fact that the world would never let him forget what he had been before. But he couldn’t stand losing Wednesday. Not again.
So he let go of the idiot in an instant. The boy fell onto his back with a strangled gasp, his expression a mixture of relief and absolute terror. Tyler looked at him with disdain.
—Get lost,— he spat.
The boy didn’t need to be told twice. He jumped to his feet, stumbling over his own as he scrambled to escape, disappearing into the crowd within seconds.
The music, which had faded into the background all this time, suddenly came back, as if the world had resumed its course. But no one would forget what had just happened. Nancy Reagan High School would remember this night.
They would remember why everyone feared Tyler Galpin.
But most of all, they would remember why no one dared to mess with Wednesday Addams.
Tyler closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady the tremor in his own body. And then he felt her touch again. Wednesday had slid her fingers to his wrist, her grip light but firm. When he opened his eyes, he found her looking at him with something new in her expression. Something he didn’t dare interpret. Not yet.
—Come,— she said.
And Tyler followed her.
Wednesday led him to a secluded spot, shut the door with a sharp click, and turned the key with a swift motion. She leaned against the wood, arms crossed, her dark gaze sweeping over every inch of Tyler with a mix of fury and disdain.
—What are you doing here, Galpin?— Her tone was ice-cold, like the edge of a blade sliding over skin.
Tyler didn’t flinch. A half-smile appeared on his face, an attempt at nonchalance, but his eyes betrayed something deeper. —I was acquitted of all charges. They said it wasn’t my fault that Laurel took advantage of me.
Wednesday let out a dry, humorless laugh. —I know that, Galpin. My parents helped you win the case. It was their lawyer who represented you.
Surprise flickered across Tyler’s face before it vanished, replaced by something unexpected: gratitude. —Your parents…?— His expression softened for a moment as he processed the information. —I thought it was just a coincidence, but if it was them… then I guess I owe them more than I thought.
Wednesday didn’t respond, only watched him with that relentless gaze that dissected him without mercy.
Tyler sighed, looking away, his jaw tightening. —Anyway, Mayor Lewis and my father wouldn’t let me return to Jericho. They kicked me out without giving me a choice. Didn’t even let me pack my things. My dad did it for me and left them at my uncle’s place here in New Jersey.
Wednesday tilted her head, her expression impassive, but her words were razor-sharp. —So your father neglected you enough for a psychotic bitch to turn you into her plaything, and now he’s abandoning you again. And to think I criticized my own father.
Tyler let out a low, dark chuckle, almost devoid of amusement. —Yeah… he did.
Wednesday studied him intently, as if analyzing every fracture in his soul. Then, she arched a brow in feigned disinterest. —And now you’re selling fentanyl. Couldn’t find anything more pathetic to do with your life?—
Tyler stepped forward slowly, closing the distance between them with deliberate strides. His presence filled the space between them, his warmth radiating danger. —I don’t sell synthetic drugs. I sell legal herbs that, with the right process, can mimic the effects of certain banned substances.
He stopped just in front of her, and before Wednesday could react, he trapped her between his body and the door, enclosing her in his proximity. His breath was warm against her skin, his voice a deep, enveloping whisper. —Laurel had to leave me something good, and that was botanical knowledge, love.
Wednesday held his gaze without blinking, but her breathing deepened, becoming more pronounced. —Don’t call me that and back off. I don’t want you near me.
Tyler smiled, tilting his head with a mocking air. —That’s a lie, love. And you know it.
His tone was low, velvety, and Wednesday felt a shiver run down her spine.
—I saw you when you danced for me. His voice dropped to an intoxicating murmur. —You wanted to torture me, to drive me insane with desire. And you did.
His lips barely grazed the skin of her neck, inhaling her scent as if it were oxygen.
—I wanted to be the one to explore every inch of your beautiful body, and I know you want me.
Wednesday clenched her teeth, trying to ignore the growing heat in her belly.
—That’s not true.
Tyler smiled against her skin, his lips brushing the curve of her jaw.
—That’s not what I smell, princess.
Without warning, he lifted her into his arms, forcing her to wrap her legs around his waist.
He carried her to the bed and let his jacket fall to the floor before leaning over her, his dark gaze roaming her like a man lost in the desert staring at a forbidden oasis.
—Say you don’t want me, Wednesday. His voice was a plea disguised as a challenge. —Tell me you don’t desire me, and I’ll accept it.
But the silence that stretched between them was louder than any words.
Tyler moved closer, his dark eyes devouring her before even touching her. His warm breath caressed her skin as he tilted his head, pressing a slow, torturous kiss to her neck, savoring every moment, every shiver he drew from her body.
She let out a shaky sigh, her hands gripping Tyler’s arms as the heat of his presence engulfed her completely. The room was bathed in an intimate, dense twilight, where the air felt thick with restrained desire, where every touch, every whisper, was magnified.
—Listen to me, love… —his voice was a husky murmur against her skin, his lips grazing the line of her jaw with desperate devotion—. It was all real. The glances, the desire, my feelings for you… Fuck, how unbelievably beautiful and fucking irresistible you looked the first time I saw you. So dark, so indifferent… You took my breath away.
Wednesday closed her eyes, her breath trembling, feeling the truth in his words, the weight of his confession vibrating in her chest.
—I remember every detail —Tyler continued, his mouth barely a breath away from her skin—. Every curve of your body, every glance we shared. It was as if time stopped just for us.
A shiver ran down Wednesday’s spine before she grabbed his face, crashing her lips against his in a raw, passionate, hungry kiss. Tyler groaned into her mouth, swallowing her moans as their tongues tangled in frantic need.
His hands traveled down Wednesday’s body, his touch alternating between gentle and possessive. His fingers traced every curve, every contour, every inch of her skin as if he were trying to memorize her. She gasped when his hands found their way beneath her clothes, her back arching instinctively at the contact.
But then, in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure, doubt slipped from her lips like venom.
—You lied to me —she whispered between ragged breaths, tugging at his hair to force him to look her in the eyes—. You used me, deceived me. How can I be sure it was real? How can I trust you after everything that’s happened?
Tyler panted, his breathing uneven, his gaze burning with desperation and desire. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching before he pushed his hips against hers with more intensity, as if trying to erase any lingering doubt from her mind.
—Fuck, beautiful… Believe me —he growled, his voice breaking with both need and sincerity—. No one has ever made me feel what you make me feel. No one drives me crazy like you do… I’m selling herbs, saving money to buy you a Yule gift. Something special, just for you. Because I want you to know… I want you to see that I’m here for you. That there’s no one else in my mind, in my fucked-up heart.
Wednesday remained silent for a moment, feeling the rapid beat of Tyler’s heart against her skin, his ragged breath, the fire in his gaze. And in that moment, the truth was undeniable: he was hers, just as much as she was his.
—I don’t want anything from you —she whispered, her voice fractured.
But they both knew it was a lie.
That she wanted everything. His love, his devotion, his madness, his overwhelming passion. She wanted him to touch her as if she were his. She wanted to lose herself in him, in his heat, in his voice, in his breath.
And when Tyler kissed her again, when their bodies melted into a sea of pleasure with no return, Wednesday understood that no matter how much she denied it, she would never be able to escape him.
Never be able to escape what he made her feel.
Because between whispers and moans, between caresses and gasps, in the twilight of that room, Tyler Galpin had already become her damn downfall.
Tyler slowly ran his fingers along the edge of Wednesday’s neckline, leaving a trail of fire on her skin before gently pulling the fabric down, freeing her from its restraint. His eyes darkened with desire as he took in her bare form, every curve, every shadow cast by the dim light on her skin. He didn’t wait any longer; his mouth descended hungrily, claiming her with searing kisses, playful bites, and slow, wet licks that tore breathless moans from Wednesday’s lips.
She arched beneath his touch, a shiver running down her spine as her hands clung to his shoulders, searching for something to hold onto. The sensation of his tongue against her skin sent electric currents through her body, igniting every fiber of her being.
—Tyler… —she moaned shakily, her voice trembling, barely a whisper lost in the dim light of the room.
He smiled against her skin, savoring her reaction. He knew he was driving her crazy, that he had her exactly where he wanted her. His lips continued their descent, leaving a wet trail of kisses and caresses that made her writhe beneath him. His hands explored her body with mastery, tracing every inch as if he were memorizing her, as if he wanted to etch himself into her skin.
Wednesday, unable to hold back any longer, slid her hands down his back, digging her nails lightly into his skin as she pulled him closer. Her breathing turned erratic, her mind clouded by the sheer intensity of what she was feeling.
They moved together, synchronized in a slow yet overwhelming dance, letting desire guide them. Every touch, every whisper, every lustful glance heightened the tension between them. The need became unbearable, a flame growing out of control until it consumed them completely.
The climax hit them like a raging storm, pulling them into an unstoppable spiral of pleasure. Wednesday moaned softly as her body tensed under the intensity of the moment, her nails leaving marks on Tyler’s skin as her breath came in sharp gasps. He followed only seconds later, letting out a deep, guttural groan against her neck, holding onto her as if she were his only anchor in the world.
Panting and exhausted, their bodies collapsed together on the bed, still tangled, their breaths mingling in the dimly lit room. They remained entwined, skin against skin, letting the frenzy slowly fade away, allowing themselves to simply feel each other’s warmth, their racing hearts gradually falling into sync.
For a moment, there was no outside world. No worries, no dangers. There was only them, trapped in a bubble of intimacy where time seemed to stand still.
Wednesday closed her eyes, savoring the comforting weight of Tyler over her, his still-rapid breathing brushing against her neck. A faint, almost imperceptible smile curved her lips.
But then, in her usual sharp and deadpan tone, she broke the silence:
—What are you trying to buy? —she whispered, with Tyler still on top of her, their foreheads touching as they shared the same breath—. That you're selling drugs.
Tyler let out a quiet snort, amused by her choice of words.
—Herbs —he corrected with a mischievous smile, pressing a lazy kiss to the corner of her lips—. Not drugs.
Wednesday arched a brow, as if unconvinced.
—Herbs that mimic the effects of certain drugs —he clarified, tracing absentminded circles along her side—. But that’s not the important part. I’m saving up to buy you something.
She frowned slightly, watching him with curiosity.
—To buy what?
Tyler rested his forehead against hers, his warm breath ghosting over her skin as he murmured:
—A typewriter.
Wednesday blinked.
—A typewriter?
Tyler nodded, a spark of excitement glinting in his dark eyes.
—Not just any typewriter —he clarified, his tone laced with an unusual gentleness—. It belonged to Daphne du Maurier. I thought you’d like it… and I remembered you once complained that yours wasn’t working properly anymore, that some keys were sticking.
She stared at him, her brow slightly furrowed, as if trying to find some hidden motive behind his words.
—You remember that?
Tyler smirked, sliding a hand down her back to pull her even closer.
—Wednesday… I remember everything about you.
For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. The warmth in his voice, the certainty with which he said it, the way he looked at her, as if nothing else in the world existed… all of it settled in her chest with an intensity that scared her.
Without a word, Wednesday nestled against him, fitting perfectly into the space between his arm and his chest, as if she were meant to be there. She rested her head on his torso, listening to the erratic drumming of his heart beneath her ear. Tyler slid an arm around her waist, tracing slow, lazy patterns along her back, his fingers tangling in the fabric of her dress as if afraid she might disappear if he let go.
The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; on the contrary, it carried a soothing weight, an enveloping calm they rarely experienced. Wednesday closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the warmth that still lingered in the air between them, into the feeling of being exactly where she was supposed to be.
Because, though she would never admit it aloud, though her mind tried to deny it, her body already knew: in Tyler Galpin’s arms, she felt at home.
Their breathing gradually synced, settling into an easy rhythm—until Tyler’s voice broke the quiet, carrying that carefree, lazy tone he always used when he was about to say something ridiculous.
—By the way… I need your help.
Wednesday didn’t open her eyes, but she arched an eyebrow, already bracing for whatever disaster was coming.
—With what?
—I need to come up with a better name for my business —Tyler murmured, eyes still closed, his hand idly trailing down her back.
Wednesday let out a sigh, somewhere between exasperation and genuine curiosity.
—What did you name it?
He took a couple of seconds to answer, as if a little embarrassed to admit it, but when he did, it was with a proud grin.
—Tyler’s Herb Emporium.
The silence that followed was brutal.
Wednesday finally opened her eyes, staring at him in disbelief.
—Do you even know what "emporium" means?
Tyler’s grin widened, like he had been waiting for that exact question.
—Nope —he answered with absolute confidence—. But I read it in Percy Jackson.
Wednesday closed her eyes again and buried her face against his chest, though it was impossible to tell whether she was hiding a smile or pure exasperation.
—You’re an idiot.
—And yet, here you are, curled up against me, enjoying my warmth and my incredible business skills.
She let out a long-suffering sigh.
—I’m going to regret this, but… fine. I’ll help you come up with a decent name.
Tyler smiled, closing his eyes again as he pulled her even closer.
—I knew I could count on you, my little dark entrepreneur.
Wednesday clicked her tongue.
—Go to sleep before I change my mind.
Tyler chuckled but obeyed. And as sleep slowly claimed him, he knew with absolute certainty that, successful business or not, he had already secured the most valuable thing in his life.
And he didn’t need a better name for that.