Page 101 of Their Cruel Love

I look and try not to weep.

I thought my family losing their money was terrible. I thought at that time I’d experienced the worst life could throw. I felt betrayed and useless and angry.

Now?

I am bereft more than any man could be. Empty. The wind whines through me, scatters more leaves. This is so stupid, to offer to hurt her.

“I cannot do this, Phoebe,” I say softly. Will they outright kill me? It would be unjust for us to die and for them to survive. Life does suck though.

Then her eyes open. “Hi.” I can decipher that despite the gag mangling syllables.

Is that fear in her eyes or is it disbelief, seeing me below her with a sword? She will have listened to what Bastion said. If anyone hears me, so be it. I cannot hurt her without confessing.

“I said I’d cut you to buy you time to run, or time for them to come to us.” She will know who I mean.

“I g’know. Don’t c’y for me. I’s not your fault.”

“Fuck. I’m not crying.” It is though, my fault. I blink and smile up at her, there, swinging, tied up, ready to die for these fuckers. She’s being a stupid martyr and smiling back. “You need speech therapy.”

She frowns. “G’cut me, slow. I c’n take it. Time. ’E need time.”

Time. I don’t think we have any. This is past the time for anything to be done. They’re too late—if they’re coming at all. I don’t say that I just look into her eyes, amazed at how brave she is being. If I cut her, if I make her bleed, she will live longer than if I do nothing and let them take her through the trapdoor.

There is one other choice. One that only she can choose. I shut my eyes, take a breath and I look upward again, eyes locked to hers. “I can kill you if you wish. It would be swift.”

I feel numb then unclean, to have said that.

If she says yes, I will kill myself after her.

I cannot bear to hear her answer, and a ringing arrives in my ears that I have to shake my head to clear.

“No,” she says. “No.Do the cut.”

“I will do your hands,” I whisper. “If I can.”

Again with the frown, and I wonder if she realizes I mean to try to cut her hands loose. I raise the katana and slide it up her body, up her back. I need to really cut her to distract them.I wait for her to spin enough, until her back is fully to the cliff, so her hands won’t be seen by the crowd.

“Forgive me,” I say softly as the keen blade begins to bite. “Make fists.”

“I do.” Then she hisses and arches. She screams, full-throated and raucous, sending the sound ripping toward the men who watch her, and I hear a rumbled hum of approval.

Ignore her agony. It is done.

Swiftly, I rotate the katana to slice the rope between her hands, and I pray she still has her fingers when the blade breaks free into the air. I stop it moving for that would betray what I did.

Blood drips off her and onto my face, and the rope and Phoebe swing in a small arc, raining more gore, driven by her pain and writhing. Minute shreds of cut rope float in the air.

No fingers fell. Now…should I leap to my feet and free her legs?

Where to from there? The cliff? It would leave Razor to their mercy and us to the jaws of that crocodile though we would probably die from the fall.

I should take her with me if I jump. Up here is only a slow, terrible death.

40

Phoebe

Where the sword sliced, pain sears a line along my bottom. Warm blood dribbles and trails the length of my body then drips off my hair. Teeth gritted, I dangle here, pretend my hands are still tied, that I am helpless and only a target for that sword, nothing more.

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