What’s left unsaid is the obvious question: Are you prepared to kill your own blood?
Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have known how to answer it. Now, it’s as if the reply has been waiting on my lips since the moment I was born.
“My father died when he laid a hand on my wife.”
I brush past him and into the dark sanctuary of my office. The door barely closes before my composure fractures.
My knees hit the floor like shattering glass. My lungs burn. The room spins.
Her name beats inside my skull with each pulse of blood. Her face—those green eyes that saw through every defense I’ve ever mustered, that smile that somehow found beauty in a monster like me—hovers just beyond my reach.
Blood smeared across white marble. The keypad flashing. One digit away from safety.
They won’t leave me the
