Page 102 of Degradation

Eight paces. Six. My hand tightens on the knife, and I can feel my muscles coiling, preparing for the strike. This will be easy. Quick. Satisfying in a way that will finally quiet the roaring in my head.

Four paces.

I draw the blade free, keeping it low and hidden against my leg. The morning light catches the edge for just a moment, throwing a silver gleam across the wall. Beautiful. Deadly.

Two paces.

I raise the knife, my body moving with the fluid precision of years of training. One quick thrust upward, between the fourth and fifth ribs, angled toward the heart. He’ll be dead before he hits the ground.

“Blake?”

Malik’s voice cuts through the silence like a whip crack, freezing me mid-stride. The knife wavers in my grip as my target stops walking, his entire body going rigid. Slowly, deliberately, he turns around.

Our eyes meet.

His are brown, I notice. Plain, unremarkable brown, set in a face that’s handsome enough but also forgettable. The kind of face that blends into crowds, that you wouldn’t look at twiceunder normal circumstances. But there’s nothing forgettable about the way he’s looking at me now, sharp, calculating, like he’s taking inventory of everything he sees.

The knife is still in my hand. Still visible. Still hungry for blood.

I could do it. Right now, right here, with Malik somewhere behind me and witnesses be damned. I could drive the blade home and watch the life drain out of those ordinary brown eyes. The thought sends a thrill through me so intense it’s almost sexual.

But Malik is calling again, closer now, and I can hear footsteps echoing off the marble. Multiple sets of footsteps. And this bastard is still staring at me with that unnerving focus, like he can see straight through to my soul and isn’t impressed by what he finds there.

Does he know?

Does he understand exactly why I’m here, exactly what I was about to do?

The possibility should terrify him, should send him running or screaming or begging for mercy. Instead, his lips curve into the faintest suggestion of a smile.

“You should go along,” he says, his voice just loud enough for Malik to hear. Like I’m a wayward dog being called to heel. Like I’m some common servant who’s wandered away from his duties.

I feel my upper lip pull back in an involuntary snarl, every instinct screaming at me to lunge forward, to show him exactly what this particular dog can do when provoked.

But his smirk only widens, and I realize with cold, furious clarity that he knows exactly what he’s doing. He knows I won’t strike now, not with Malik bearing down on us and the sound of other voices drifting through the corridors.

He knows I’m trapped, forced to stand here and watch as he walks away unpunished.

And he’s enjoying it.

The bastard is actually enjoying my impotent rage, savouring it like fine wine. Like the memory of Paitlyn’s skin beneath his hands.

“Blake.” Malik calls again, and now I can hear the irritation creeping into his voice. “Where the hell are you?”

The man, this nameless, worthless piece of shit who dared to touch what’s mine, gives me one last knowing look before turning away. His stride is even more confident now, more leisurely, like our little encounter has only confirmed his superiority. Like he’s won some contest I didn’t even know we were playing.

I watch him go, my entire body vibrating with frustrated violence. The knife feels useless in my hand now, just dead weight and broken promises. I should put it away, should compose myself before Malik finds me, but I can’t seem to make my fingers obey. All I can do is stand here and burn with the knowledge that justice has been denied, that this insult will go unanswered.

For now.

Pailtyn

My husband fucks me that night. I think he hurts me more to prove a point.

In the morning, I get my period again and for that heinous crime, I’m once again locked in that freezing cold outbuilding. Chained up. Left to starve and bleed for six days and this time it’s so much more haunting, more horrific because I can’t see a thing, I’m surrounded by darkness, and the creaking of the wood, and the constant sounds of what feels like monsters trying to get in, trying to devour me.

By the time the final day comes, I’m a mess. I think I’m hallucinating from the cold because it’s winter now, snow is on the ground and yet, I had nothing but a shift dress on.

When Ada and the new maid come to get me out, I can’t stop shaking. I can barely stand and the cold water they have to wash me down and purify me with does nothing to help me get warm.