Page 78 of Hunted to the Altar
I placed the dagger across her lap, my hands open, empty, helpless.
"If there’s anything left in you that still burns," I said, my voice scraping raw against my throat, "then take it."
I forced myself to meet her gaze.
Forced myself not to flinch."If ending me brings you peace, if it stitches even a shred of your soul back together—" I swallowed hard."—then do it. I won't stop you."
She stared at the blade for a long moment. Long enough that the ache in my knees became a distant scream.
Then her fingers moved.
Slow.
Deliberate.
She lifted the dagger.
The silver caught the moonlight, flashing against the dark velvet of the night.
She tested its weight in her hand, her face unreadable.
My pulse thudded painfully at my throat. I didn’t move.
Whatever she chose?—
It would be right.
It would be justice.
The tip of the blade hovered near my throat. One small push. One breath of hesitation surrendered?—
And it would be done.
I closed my eyes and waited for it.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, I felt the cold kiss of steel against my wrist.
Her hands were steady as she tilted the blade sideways and pressed it into the flesh over my pulse. Not hard enough to sever. Just enough to scar.
A line of blood bloomed against my skin, slow and deliberate.
When I opened my eyes, Nina was already setting the dagger down beside her. The cut on my wrist stung, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. It wasn’t death.
It wasn’t mercy.
It was a mark. A permanent reminder: I had hurt her.
And now, I would carry the proof of it until the day I died.
I stayed kneeling, my head bowed, my blood dripping to the floor. I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak. I let her watch me bleed. Let her decide what came next.
Minutes passed—or maybe lifetimes.
The world narrowed to the shallow sounds of her breathing and the hot slickness of blood against my palm.
