Page 56 of The Mourning Throne
“Why?”
“Just face the city,” Morgan murmured. “And don’t look down until Itell you.”
Pete huffed a laugh, awkward and breathy, but he looked in front of him anyway.
“Feels stupid.”
“It’s not stupid. This will be fun, I promise.”
And it wasn’t a lie.
Not to Morgan.
Not when he pulled on his gloves and stepped in close enough to brush the back of Pete’s neck.
The blade came free from his inner pocket, seamless and silent. Sleek handle, fitted perfectly to his palm, as familiar as any lover.
Luck had nothing to do with this anymore.
He didn’t plunge the knife in. Not yet.
Instead, he leaned forward, lips touching Pete’s ear.
“Don’t look down. You’ll ruin the surprise.”
Then the blade kissed skin.
He slid it diagonally along Pete’s abdomen—not deep. Just enough to part fabric, then flesh, enough for Pete tofeelit—hot, wrong, real.
Pete gasped, breath hitching, eyes darting to the mirror.
Well, Morganhadwarned him it would spoil all the fun.
How terrible it must have felt for Pete to see his own face, twisted in shock and pain. The reflection offered no grace, only truth. Work shirt already blooming dark, spreading across the cotton. The first drop of blood hit the mirror’s surface and trailed down, smearing the image with a red streak.
Lex’s phone light flickered—just once—throwing glittering, twisted shapes into Morgan’s peripheral vision.
Shadows turned into kaleidoscopes.
Morgan kept his gaze on the mirror.
Watched Pete tremble, his grip slackening, mouth parting in wordless confusion. He was trying—tryingto turn, to see, to understand. His shoes scraped on concrete, knees buckling.
But Morgan kept him pressed tight to his chest. A partner in a dance he hadn’t known he’d joined. And Morgan led.
The second cut went in just above the hip. The blade parted muscle and skin with practiced ease. It barely made a sound.
Neither did Pete.
“You should’ve said no,” Morgan whispered, against the back of Pete’s neck. “But then, most people don’t know when they’ve gone too far.”
The air smelled like copper now—wet and heady. Blood soaked the concrete, dripping steadily, sliding in thin, sticky lines down the front of Pete’s pants.
Still not dead.
Morgan tilted his head toward the car, gaze slicing through shadow until it found Lex’s lens. Through the dark, through glass and fog, the red light blinked steady. Watching. Recording.
This one’s for you,he mouthed.
