Page 15 of A Kiss of Deception

A wooden box catches my eye, the one that holds every coin she saved, each hard-earned through nights of degradation. Its presence feels like a taunt, a painful reminder of plans for a different life. I lunge for it, my fingers closing around its edges. With a scream of anguish, I hurl it against the wall. It shatters, coins spilling across the floor like droplets of blood.

Then, a shadow stirs, pulling my gaze. Milkor stands there, an otherworldly calm around him, surveying the scene with chilling indifference. His silver eyes, void of warmth, send shivers down my spine. He's not just an elf—there's something darker, something primal swirling beneath his surface.

My stomach churns. Bile rises. The room spins faster.

"Why are you doing this?" My whisper barely pierces the silence, laden with accusation.

His gaze locks onto mine. For a heartbeat, something flickers in his expression. My skin crawls. My breath catches.

"There is a new power in your father," he says, the smooth detachment of his voice sending ice through my veins.

New power? The words echo, hollow. Empty. My mind reels, struggling to piece together his cryptic words amidst the chaos. Blood pounds in my ears. Why would my father's power matter, especially when it meant this? In Protheka, power is a ravenous beast, consuming everything in its path—even family.

My throat constricts. Words claw their way out. "Did Jarvil tell you to kill her?" The question is sharp, spilling from me like venom. The truth is monstrous, unfathomable.

Milkor's head inclines. A nod so slight, yet crippling. "Yes." His voice is as cold as the stones under her lifeless form.

Rage ignites within me. Burns through the shock. I lunge at Milkor, my fists pounding against his chest. "You monster!" I scream, the words tearing from my throat. "How could you? She was trying to build a better life for us!"

Milkor doesn't flinch. His hands grip my wrists, effortlessly restraining me. His expression remains unreadable. A mask of stone. "It was merely a transaction," he states matter-of-factly, as though he's discussing the weather.

Transaction. The word stings. Echoes. Mocks. A cruel reminder of our world's harsh realities. Korrine's life snuffed out for what? I wrench myself from his grip, stumbling backward. Every shattered dream crashes over me like a wave. In Protheka, lives are commodities, traded and discarded at will by those who hold the reins of power.

In that moment, I see something shift in Milkor—an inkling of conflict beneath his detached exterior. For a fleeting moment, his eyes flicker with something human, a ghost of remorse perhaps, but it vanishes, leaving only the cold void behind.

I stand there, trembling—caught between my mother's lifeless form and Milkor's eerie presence. My gaze darts around the room, searching for a weapon, an escape, anything. I vow silently that her dreams will not die with her. No matter the price, I will escape this nightmare. In a world where power corrupts and betrayal is currency, I'll forge my own path—even if it means burning everything else to the ground.

9

MILKOR

Meetha's face contorts, a storm of emotions playing across her features. Grief, anger, fear - they all war for dominance. She stumbles backward, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a sob.

"No," she chokes out, shaking her head in disbelief. "No, no, no..."

I watch, fascinated, as she battles her inner turmoil. Her eyes dart between her mother's body and me, confusion evident in her gaze. She takes a shuddering breath, steeling herself.

"Will he... will he have you kill me next?" Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, her voice carrying the weight of her fear. The question hangs in the air, heavy with the implications of past events.

I study her face, noting the tension in her jaw, the way her eyes dart nervously to the shadows. This isn't just the fear of the moment; it's a deep-seated terror born from experience.

Her hand unconsciously moves to touch a small amulet hanging around her neck - a charm for good fortune, now seeming woefully inadequate.

Uncertainty washes over me as I consider Jarvil's erratic nature. "I do not know," I admit, the unfamiliar taste of uncertainty coating my tongue. "He is unpredictable."

Meetha's shoulders slump, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "Unpredictable? That's one way to put it."

She wraps her arms around herself, as if warding off a chill. "You know, he's done this before. Not... not killing, but getting rid of people."

I remain silent, allowing her to continue. Her words come faster now, tumbling out as if she's been holding them back for too long.

"There was a servant girl, Lina. She spilled wine on his favorite tunic. The next day, she was gone. No explanation, just... gone."

Meetha's voice drops to a whisper. "And my older sister, Elara. She defied him, refused the marriage he'd arranged. She disappeared too. He said she'd run off with some trader, but I know... I know she wouldn't have left without saying goodbye."

Her eyes meet mine, filled with a mixture of fear and determination.

"And now my mother... I knew he didn't love her. But at least she was useful to him. He doesn't love me. Doesn't want me. I'm not useful. What's to stop him from..." She trails off, unable to finish the thought.

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