Page 14 of A Kiss of Deception

"Shut up!" Jarvil roars, his fists clenching at his sides. "You ungrateful bitch. Where would you be without me?"

Korrine's eyes flash. "Anywhere would be better than here with you."

The tension builds, a rubber band stretched to its limit, quivering with the strain. I can almost hear the ominous creak of it about to snap, the air charged with the promise of chaos. My heart pounds in my chest, a drumbeat echoing the inevitable release.

Jarvil's face turns an alarming shade of red, veins bulging in his neck. He lunges forward, grabbing Korrine's arm roughly. "You want to leave? Is that it? After everything I've done for you?"

Korrine tries to wrench her arm free, panic replacing her defiance. "Jarvil, you're hurting me. Let go!"

"I'll show you hurt," Jarvil snarls, raising his other hand threateningly.

I stand rooted to the spot as I watch the scene before me unfold in agonizing slow motion. The air is thick with the promise of violence, charged like the heavy stillness before a thunderstorm. Jarvil's fury is a palpable force, a dark wave that washes over the room, engulfing everything in its path. His faceis a terrifying mask of anger, the muscles in his neck standing out like cords as he looms over Korrine, his grip on her arm unyielding.

The world narrows to this single, explosive moment. And I'm frozen, held captive by the spectacle of Jarvil's wrath reaching its fearsome zenith.

"Kill her," he suddenly snarls at me, his eyes wild.

I move. Korrine gasps. My hand finds her throat.

A twist. A crack. She falls.

The door creaks. Meetha appears.

Horror. Shock. Then defiance.

"No!" she shouts.

Jarvil freezes. "What?"

"I won't let you," Meetha stands tall. "You don't control me."

Anger flashes in Jarvil's eyes. "You'll regret this."

Meetha doesn't flinch. "I'd rather face you than live in fear."

The room crackles with newfound tension, the air practically humming with the sudden shift in dynamics. My heart hammers in my chest as I take in the scene: Jarvil's rage is a palpable force, Meetha's defiance a beacon of challenge, and Korrine's lifeless body a stark reminder of the stakes.

The world I knew moments ago has irrevocably changed. My senses are heightened, every detail etched with crystal clarity. The weight of my actions, the shock in Meetha's eyes, the stillness of Korrine – it's as if we're all suspended in time, pieces on a chessboard awaiting the next move that will determine our fates.

8

MEETHA

Korrine lies crumpled on the floor, her radiant eyes now vacant, staring off into nothing. That grace, once fluid and mesmerizing, is replaced by a grotesque stillness. Blood pools beneath her, staining the floor with the grim finality of her demise.

A sudden noise startles me—a rat scurrying across the floor, its tail dragging through the blood. I lurch forward, kicking at it instinctively. The creature squeals and darts away, leaving tiny red footprints in its wake. The sight makes my stomach heave.

In Protheka, life is a fragile thread, easily snapped by the whims of those in power. My mother's thread, once vibrant and full of hope, now lies severed at my feet. The weight of this truth threatens to crush me.

I blink rapidly, struggling to clear my vision as memories surge—her dreams of being a healer, of using her empathy to help others. But in Protheka, dreams are luxuries few can afford. I knew the risks of her life as a flesh entertainer; I knew it could end like this, yet seeing her robbed of her essence devastates me.

Suddenly, a memory flickers—a hushed conversation with Jarvil just days ago, his rough voice filled with a smolderinganger. "This is how it works, Meetha. Sacrifice is necessary. Our survival depends on it." His words echo in my mind, a haunting reminder of the reality we live in, where life can be traded like currency.

And then another memory—my mother's voice, soft but determined: "In this world, Meetha, even love can be a weapon. Be careful who you trust." Her words, once cryptic, now ring with painful clarity. Trust, I realize, is as rare and precious as magic in our cruel reality.

I swallow hard against the scream clawing at my throat. The taste of bile is acrid, tainting my tongue. Death has always haunted our doorsteps, especially in her line of work. But nothing prepared me for this—my mother, a shadow of herself, lying cold and alone.

My breath accelerates, each inhale sharp and ragged. The room tilts, spinning around me. Familiar artifacts mock me—the faded tapestries, the rickety chair, the cracked mirror—unchanged yet irrevocably altered by this moment.

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