Page 63 of Silent Schemes
Either by her hand, or by mine.
By the time I collect myself, she’s waiting in my bed.
I step into the room, kill the lights, and let the city shine through the windows.
Sienna sprawls across the sheets, one leg crooked, my white dress shirt buttoned halfway, the tails riding up her thigh.
The silk sheets look black under her, the knife in her hand gleaming like a shard of moon.
She’s sharpening it against a leather strop, slow, careful, eyes on the door the whole time.
“Expecting company?” I say.
She grins, flips the blade in her palm, and tucks it under the pillow. “You always sneak up on me.”
I cross to the bed, sit on the edge.
The mattress dips, and she leans toward me, hungry or angry or both. “Come here.”
I do.
I sit, legs spread, hands on her knees.
She closes the gap, plants herself in my lap, the knife suddenly back in her hand, pressed under my chin.
She kisses me, blood and whiskey and rain.
I take the knife from her, let the edge flirt with my own jugular, then set it to the side.
“I could gut you,” she whispers, lips on my jaw.
“Try. It would be a worthy death,” I murmur into her ear, fingers curling around her wrist.
She shifts, drapes the shirt off her shoulder, exposing the line where my teeth bruised her the night before.
I pick up the knife and flick it open.
Her eyes go wide, pulse jumping in her throat.
“Give me your hand,” I say.
She does. Not even a moment of hesitation.
I press the blade to her palm, slice a thin line.
She doesn’t flinch.
I cut my own, deeper.
We press our hands together, blood slick and hot.
“Blood oath,” I say. “You don’t lie to me. I don’t lie to you.”
She leans in, puts her hand on my shoulder, before taking it off, licking the blood off my collarbone.
It’s animalistic, and I love her more for it.
“What if the truth’s worse than the lie?” she asks.
