Page 51 of Silent Schemes
We're both breathing hard now, circling again, looking for openings. The rain pounds against the windows, creating a rhythm for our violence.
"You met your handler," he states, not asks. "Gave him intel."
"I gave him nothing about you. Nothing real."
"Yet." The word hangs between us like a blade. "But tomorrow night, you'll have to choose. The poison or me. Your father or your freedom."
I attack for real right now, unleashing combinations I've only used in death matches.
He meets me strike for strike, our bodies colliding as the heat ramps up between us.
We're not sparring anymore—we're trying to prove something to each other, to ourselves.
I get him in a chokehold, arm locked around his throat, and for a moment I have him.
I could break his neck.
I could end this right the fuck now.
Complete my mission and save Maya from becoming me.
The position is perfect, the pressure exact.
One sharp twist and the Bastard King dies.
But he doesn't fight.
Doesn't struggle.
Just relaxes into my hold, trusting me completely, and that trust undoes me more than any violence could.
"Do it," he whispers. "If you're going to kill me, at least do it yourself. Not with poison like a coward."
I release him, stumbling back, disturbed by how wrong it feels to hurt him.
He spins, tackles me to the mat, pins me beneath his weight.
We're both gasping, sweat-slicked, hearts pounding in sync.
"Why?" I demand. "Why didn't you fight?"
"Because you already made your choice. You just haven't admitted it yet."
The space between us crackles with electricity.
His weight presses me into the mat, and every point of contact burns.
This is what Vincent warned about—getting compromised, forgetting the mission, wanting something I'm not allowed to have.
"Ihateyou," I whisper, but my hands are already reaching for him.
"No," he says, catching my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. "You hate that Iseeyou. The real you, not the weapon your father made."
His free hand traces the cut on my cheek with unexpected gentleness. "I'm going to kill him for this."
"Vincent's mine to handle."
"Not Vincent." His eyes are black with promise. "Theodore. For every bruise, every scar, every piece of you he broke."
