The inside of the tower room hits Gio like a fever dream. Moonlight spills through the single window, painting the walls in shades of silver and rot. The air is heavy, thick with the scent of lavender and something sharper—mold, perhaps, or the faint tang of old blood. The walls are draped in tattered tapestries, their threads unraveling into scenes of women with hollow eyes, their mouths stitched shut. A cracked mirror leans against one corner, its surface clouded as if it refuses to reflect the truth. Bones—small, birdlike—lie scattered on a shelf, nestled among jars of dried herbs that glow faintly green in the dark. The room feels alive, its pulse hidden in the creak of the floorboards, the whisper of the wind through unseen cracks.

Rapunzel gestures to the bed, a sagging thing piled with furs and patchwork quilts. “Sit,” she says, her voice a child’s lilt wrapped in a woman’s warmth. Gio lowers himself, expecting to sink like a stone in water, but the bed holds him, its softness unnatural, as if it molds to his weight with a lover’s care. He watches her move, quick and precise, tidying the chaos of her world. Her hair trails behind her, a golden veil that shifts like liquid, never tangling, never catching. She glides across the floor, her bare feet barely touching the wood, as if programmed by some unseen hand. Gio marvels at her grace—how does she not trip, not falter? It’s too perfect, too rehearsed.

His eyes drift to the far corner of the room, where shadows pool like spilled ink. The darkness there feels colder, heavier, almost calling to him. The wind whistles through a crack, a low moan that sounds like “Oh noo!” His skin prickles, and he stands, drawn to the shadows as if they might whisper secrets. His boot presses a weak floorboard, and it groans, sharp and accusing. Rapunzel spins, her hair rippling like a startled snake.

“Where are you going?” Her voice is a child’s, high and curious, but her eyes—those dark, unblinking eyes—carry a woman’s weight. She looks no older than nineteen, maybe eighteen, but her voice dips younger, like a girl of twelve playing pretend. Her gaze sharpens, pinning him. “Huh?”

Gio freezes, his breath catching. Up close, her beauty is a blade—pale skin glowing under the moonlight, lips soft and parted, but those eyes… they don’t match. They’re too old, too knowing. “Sorry,” he mumbles, retreating to the bed. His heart hammers, though he can’t say why.

She turns back to her tidying, bending to pluck a book from the floor—Lethal Lust by Luke Pens, its cover worn and creased. As she leans, her hair parts, a golden curtain slipping to reveal the bare curve of her back, the shadowed crevice below. She’s naked beneath the strands, her body a secret hidden by the thinnest veil. Gio’s breath catches, a gasp he swallows before it escapes. She doesn’t turn, but her lips curve, a secret smile. She felt his gaze. She wanted it.

“You said you have pies?” she blurts, straightening. “Mother always promised pies from the market. Sometimes she brought them, sometimes she didn’t. But I loved them.” Her voice is bright, eager, a child’s delight in a woman’s mouth.

“That’s good,” Gio says, forcing nonchalance. He shifts, trying to shake the unease curling in his gut.

“What flavor?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Apple,” he says.

She claps her hands, a little girl’s joy, and her hair shifts again, parting over her chest. For a heartbeat, her bosom is bare—soft, pale, impossibly perfect—before the strands snap back like a curtain. Gio’s pulse spikes, his eyes darting away. She doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

He pulls the pie from his satchel, still warm to her surprise, and cuts it with his knife. She snatches the bigger piece, stuffing it into her mouth like a starving toddler. Crumbs dust her lips, her cheeks bulging as she moans, “Oh my goodness, this is so good.” Her eyes flutter closed, savoring it, and for a moment, she’s just a girl, unguarded and human.

But Gio’s gaze drifts back to the shadowed corner. The darkness pulls at him, a siren’s call. Before he can stand, Rapunzel’s hand darts out, cupping his face, turning him to meet her eyes. “How old are you, mister?” she asks, her voice syrup-sweet.

“Barely twenty-three,” he says, startled by her touch. Her fingers are too warm, like coals beneath silk.

She smiles, and it’s barely human—a stretch of lips that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m twenty-five, I think. That’s what Mother told me before she left this morning. She might come back tonight. Or not, like last night.” She pauses, licking crumbs from her lips. “Thank you for the pie, mister.”

“Just call me Gio, Rapunzel,” he says, leaning forward.

Her eyes widen, playful and bright. “Gio Rapunzel? My name is Rapunzel too!” she says, her voice a mock pout, lips trembling with a giggle that’s half-child, half-siren. The humor catches him off guard, and he laughs, the sound swallowed by the room’s heavy air.

He leans closer, her eyes pools of dark honey, and he smells the pie on her breath, sweet and warm. Before he knows it, his lips brush hers, soft and yielding. She stiffens, then pushes him back, her hands firm against his chest.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he stammers, heat flooding his face. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” she says, her voice small. “It’s not your fault. I made you do that myself.” She hesitates, then adds, “But maybe we could do it again?”

Her innocence disarms him. He leans closer, and their lips meet again, hungrier this time. They tumble onto the bed, her hair falling away to reveal her lush body—curves soft and feminine, glowing under the moonlight. Gio gasps, his hands tracing her warmth, her skin fever-hot against his.

They collapse, breathless, tangled in furs and each other. Rapunzel’s eyes gleam, wide and wondering. “That was beautiful,” she whispers. “I only read about it in books. It was amazing.” Her voice is raw, almost reverent.

Gio smiles, brushing his thumb across her cheek, her chin. He kisses her forehead, soft and lingering, then turns to sleep. She grabs his hand, her small, unmarked fingers pressing into his scarred palm. He glances back—she’s half-asleep, her skin glowing under the moonlight, her hair shimmering faintly, like threads of spun gold catching fire. She hums a tune, soft and haunting, her voice trailing into a murmur.

“What’s that song?” he asks, his eyelids heavy.

“Mother sang it to me,” she mumbles, already drifting. “To help me sleep…”

Gio chuckles to himself. Her mother won’t come back. How could she get up here? The thought is a comfort as he closes his eyes, the bed’s softness cradling him. He feels safe, foolishly so.

As his breathing slows, Rapunzel’s eyes snap open. They glint in the dark, sharp and unblinking, like a predator’s.

The Sway of Charms