Page 120 of The Blood we Crave

I enjoy diminishing the lights from people’s eyes, removing any source of life inside their pupils until they fog up and glass over. I love that part.

But this feels nothing like that.

The luster inside her jade irises flutters out, a crushed firefly beneath my shoe. The constant emotion that swims within the depths when she stares at me, so overwhelming I can see it from across the courtyard when she tries to blend into the crowd…

It’s gone.

Empty.

But I need it killed.

My body leans towards her, reaching forward and flicking one of her curls out of the way with my thumb. I feel my mind take a mental picture of this look on her pale face.

“We are nothing but a generational curse. The ninth symphony, doomed to begin before we even start,” I mutter. “Your mother fell in love with a killer, and look where she wound up. Look what my father did to her. Think about what I can do to you.”

Phoebe Abbott had fallen in the worst way for Henry—into a dead end with no escape. The man of her dreams had created her worst nightmare. And we had slipped into the same wheel.

She blinks up at me, her left hand reaching into my jacket pocket. The warmth of her fingers seeps through the material.

“That was our destiny, right, Thatcher? I fall in love with you, and you kill me. Just like our parents, yeah?”

My pocketknife gleams when she removes it, holding it flat on her palm and offering it to me.

I nod curtly, removing my hands from her hair.

“Then kill me.”

Lyra’s words slice through the air. She stares up with a mask of impassive emotion, unmoving and without fear. Either she’s ready to die or believes I won’t hurt her.

“Stop,” I order, knowing what she is trying to do.

“If you’re like your father and I’m my mother, then this should be easy. Kill me,” she urges, flicking the knife open and shoving it towards me, desperate for me to take it from her.

Every muscle in my body tightens, something inside of me boiling. That new emotion, rage, crashes over me like a red wave. The longer she stands there, pushing the knife into my hands, the darker the color becomes.

I step closer to her. “I won’t tell you again.”

“Do it!” she yells. “If it’s so easy, if what you say is true, then do it! Just go ahead and end it.”

My hand is shaking with fury when I jerk the knife from her hand. My fingers sink into the back of her hair, tugging her body into my own.

With commanding steps, I walk us backwards, forcing her body back until we wind up across the room, tucked into the darkness of the closet and her back slammed into the wall.

The blade feels warm in my hand, the metal pressed sideways against her delicate throat. I keep my hold on the back of her head, forcing her neck into the knife.

“Kill me, Thatcher. Show me exactly who you are.”

Her breath comes out in quick gasps, but she keeps her head up, giving me access, practically begging for me to cut her open, to leave her lying with nothing but a ruby necklace, streaks of blood pouring down, draining her dry.

I grind my teeth, desperate to end this. But my hand won’t let me. My mind refuses.

“No.” I shake my head, trying to swallow, but my throat tightens.

“Do it! Kill me!” Her voice shakes in my ears, ringing clear, demanding me to do something I’ve thought about for years. But just like the first time, I don’t.

“I can’t!” I pull her hair, forcing her to look directly up at me. “God, I want to slice you up, pet. Into pieces, slaughter everything you are so I never have to experience this horrendous thrumming in my gut every time I see you. I want to kill you and your memory, but I can’t fucking do it!”

My chest heaves, breaths coming out in spurts like I’ve run for miles on end. The stark truth wavers between us, my incapability landing in front of me.

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