Page 15 of Her Possessive Minotaurs

My heart screams at me to stop, to run away, but there’s nowhere left to go. This is my life now—a life where survival means becoming someone else entirely.

Irix’s grip tightens again. “Now.”

I raise the dagger above my head, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. The dark elf’s face morphs into something else. His face distorts into loathing, looking at me as if I’m less than dust.

Then…

I remember. Eryndor’s cruelty. The way he slaughtered my friends without mercy. The way he broke me, piece by piece. And something inside me snaps.

My body moves on instinct, the blade driving deep into the elf’s chest. His breath hitches, and for a second, time seems to freeze. Then, with a final gasp, the life fades from his eyes, and he slumps forward, dead.

I stare at the body, my hands covered in blood. I feel sick and hollow, but there’s something else too—anger. Rage. Power.

The blood on my hands feels both foreign and familiar, as if it has always been there, waiting for this moment. My chest heaves with labored breaths as I look up at Irix.

His grin is feral, satisfied. "There it is," he says, voice low and approving.

I swallow hard, fighting the bile rising in my throat. "Is this what you wanted?" My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

Iron nods slowly. "More than that," he says, stepping closer. "I wanted to see what you’re made of."

I drop the dagger; its weight suddenly becomes unbearable. The sound of it hitting the ground is swallowed by the forest's silence.

"Now you know," I murmur.

He reaches out, lifting my chin with a rough finger. "Oh, I know." His eyes bore into mine, searching for something deeper.

The power I felt moments ago still simmers beneath my skin, but it's tainted by the horror of what I've done. The anger is there too—a raw wound that refuses to heal.

"You’re stronger than you think," Irix says softly, almost as if he’s talking to himself.

I shake my head. "I'm not strong. I'm just... desperate."

"Desperation can be a kind of strength," he counters.

I look down at the dark elf's lifeless body once more. The blood on my hands has dried to a dark crimson stain—an indelible mark of what I've become.

"Maybe," I say quietly.

But inside, a part of me wonders if I've just taken the first step down a path from which there's no return.

Irix watches me, his expression unreadable. “You did it,” he says softly, almost approving. “You’re one of us now.”

My heart pounds in my ears as I wipe the blood from my hands, my mind racing. I’ve killed, and though guilt gnaws at me, I know I’ll do it again. Because in this world, it’s kill or be killed.

The darl elf’s lifeless body lies at my feet, a stark reminder of what I’ve become. The forest seems to close in around us, the trees whispering secrets of survival and death. Irix’s gazenever wavers, his eyes searching mine for something—approval? Respect? Fear?

I’m not sure what he sees, but his nod is almost imperceptible. “Good,” he murmurs. “You’re learning.”

The blood on my hands feels like a brand, a mark that will never wash away. But as much as it sickens me, there’s a strange sense of relief too. The power I felt when I drove the dagger home—it was real. Tangible.

“I had no choice,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“There’s always a choice,” Irix replies, his voice low and steady. “But you made the right one.”

I glance down at the dark elf again, my stomach churning. This isn’t who I wanted to be. But maybe it’s who I need to be to survive here.

“Come on,” Irix says, breaking the silence. “We need to get back before Thalos wonders what’s taking so long.”

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