Page 146 of Cruel Malady: A Necrosis of the Mind

Just a few days ago, I was plotting Alex’s demise. I was hate-fucking him in a skywalk bathroom. Now I’m mentally torturing myself over removing one of my targets? A sadistic homewrecker? How many other women would secretly choose to end Addisyn’s life if there was no judgment, no consequences? If the rules didn’t apply to them?

This isn’t about her, or these fucking emotions, or the guilt. I knew what I was capable of the moment I shoved a little boy’s face in an ant bed.

Who I am—my true nature—was inescapable.

“Blakely.” Alex’s voice comes from behind me, a summons.

I close the drawer and turn toward him, the knife held before me. A worried divot creases the space between his eyebrows, and I step forward and smooth the wrinkle away with my thumb, then palm his face, letting the abrasive feel of his shadowed stubble comfort me.

He’s so familiar…

I slip the handle of the knife into his palm.

“This will be over soon,” he assures me.

I nod, even though we both know that’s a lie we’re telling ourselves.

This won’t ever be over.

This is only the start.

Alex places a tender kiss to my forehead before he turns and starts in the direction of Addisyn.

My heart knocks painfully in my chest, adrenaline climbing. I watch as he stops right in front of her, knife cast down near his thigh. He stares into her eyes—eyes wide with fear, her cheeks blotchy and wet from tears.

As Alex rests the blade above her collarbone, I can hardly hear her high-pitched squeal over the roaring of my heart. I swear the muscle is either going to burst or stop beating.

I’m becoming lightheaded, as if I’m watching from outside myself. I’ve never experienced such an intense rush.

I can’t claim what emotion is rioting through me, maybe all of them. Just like Alex’s black room, the darkest color in existence being a fusion of all colors, my soul is darkening with every emotion.

The sensation grips me, owning me before I can master control of my thoughts or actions.

I decide it’s better if we don’t think, when letting a piece of ourselves die.

As I move in close to stand beside Alex, I breathe in the remnants of his faded cologne, and the undercurrent sears my veins. His body heat singes my skin, thrilling. Then I see my hand slip along his forearm as I coast down to place my hand over his.

His heavy breaths rend the air, and I sense each one as if he’s breathing through me, into me. We stay suspended like this—the knife held to her neck; a nick of blood staining the tip—our hands locked together, until he says the one thing he can’t take back.

“Together.”

I rest my cheek against his arm, feeling the strain of his muscles. “Together.”

I’m not sure which one of us initiates the kill, but we move in tandem, the drag of the blade across her skin echos through us. Applying more force, we push the knife deeper until we feel the steel hit bone. Once we pass the artery, the gurgling sound muffles her moans.

I lace my fingers through his as the flow of red covers our hands.

I don’t look away—I stare into her desolate eyes as she begins to fade, her lids fluttering as she fights to stay conscious. I’m surprised by the numbness. Then suddenly that dull, hazy gray dissipates, and a bloom of colors unfold. So vibrant.

Alex removes the knife as her head lulls forward, but he doesn’t release my hand. He uses his other hand to cover mine, the warmth a mix of blood and his body heat. All I can do is stare at our blood-coated, entwined fingers.

The same way I stared at my blood-stained palms after I stabbed a man.

Only I was alone then.

I’m not now.

I refused to admit the truth before, but there’s no denying it now, not with Alex studying my eyes, knowing what impulses are firing to which synopses in my brain. He can read me, my emotions a simple equation to him.

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