Page 148 of The Shattered Rite
He couldn’t.
Because it wasn’t supposed to hurt this much.
It wasn't about killing the guard.
It was seeing her break.
And yet.
It did hurt.
Her grief was supposed to free him.
Instead, it anchored him to the moment.
She sobbed his name like a prayer, again and again.
Not Malric.
Silas.
Malric’s hand shook.
And the worst part was: he didn’t regret killing him.
He regretted that she mourned him.
He took one last look at her.
Blood on her hands. Knees stained red. Her body shaking, her voice broken.
And still—still—she looked stronger than anything he’d ever touched.
He hated that.
He hated her.
He wanted her.
And when she finally learns what I did,he thought,I hope she tries to kill me. Because it’ll be the only honest thing left between us.
He didn’t remember leaving the corridor.
He barely felt the stone under his boots, or the cold air of the upper halls. Only the blood on his hands felt real.
Silas’ blood.
Her grief.
Malric reached his quarters like a man sleepwalking.
He shut the door behind him and stood there, in the silence, in the dark, listening to his own heartbeat hammer against his ribs.
Then, methodically, he stripped off the blood-soaked gloves. Peeled his sleeves back. His arms were streaked in red. His throat felt tight.
At the basin, he washed.
Slow. Careful. Mechanical.
