Page 42 of Black Heart

I scream, thrashing against my bonds until my skin splits open. Tears soak my cheeks and blur my vision, but I can't look away.

The Scythe steps back, letting Bonesaw's lifeless body slump to the floor in a spreading pool of crimson. He turns to face me, the knife still clutched in his hand, dripping.

His expression is unreadable, his eyes two clear glaciers in a face streaked with gore.

The Scythe takes a step toward me. And another, his footfalls like gunshots. I shrink back in the chair, my heart rabbiting against my ribs, every instinct screaming at me to flee.

But there's nowhere to go. I'm trapped, helpless, completely at his mercy.

He reaches me and crouches down until we're at eye level. Slowly, almost gently, he reaches out and wipes the tearsstreaking down one cheek. I gasp in a shuddering breath, tasting salt and copper on my tongue.

"P-please," I whimper, my voice cracking. "Please don't hurt me."

Something flickers in his gaze. His jaw tightens and he looks away, as if he can't bear to meet my eyes anymore.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says roughly.

The Scythe straightens and steps back, giving me space. He wipes the knife clean on his pant leg before sheathing it at his waist.

“That,” the Scythe says to me softly, nodding toward the lifeless form on the floor, “was your future.”

I shudder involuntarily, terror gripping my heart. “You ... you killed him.”

“You really think I’d let anything happen to you, Layla?” He stares down at me, his dark expression severe. “Every word I’ve told you is the truth. The threat is real. It’s deadly. And it’s my job to protect you from it.”

“You ... you really brought him here to do this to me.”

It hits me then. This was all orchestrated. The Scythe lured this assassin here, dangling me as bait, to prove his point. It’s a brutal, visceral demonstration of the threats surrounding me—and of his willingness to eliminate them.

“Yes, Wraithling. Really. I’m trying to save you from this world, a world where men like him are around every corner.”

“Why? I don’t even know your name, and you’re professing your loyalty to me like we’re important to each other, somehow. I’ve fought you at every turn.”

My voice fractures on my next question, from trauma, from hopelessness, from fear. “Why aren’t you just leaving me to die?”

Something shifts in his gaze. “I knew a girl like you once. She was much younger, but she was forced into a world shedidn’t deserve to be a part of, and it was my fault. I’m not making that mistake with an innocent again.”

“But I’m not her.”

“No,” he clips out. “You’re not.”

His confession only deepens the mystery surrounding him. The Scythe’s bitter stare sinks through my skin, seeking understanding, perhaps even absolution. But I have none to give.

"What happened to her?"

The question slips out, unbidden.

A muscle tics in his jaw. For a long moment, I think he won't answer.

"She died."

Two words, spoken with such finality, such grief.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

And I am. Despite everything, despite the gore still raining down on me, I feel the weight of his loss.

"Her death was..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Unnecessary. Avoidable. Much like yours would be if I left you to the wolves."

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