Keeper, Not Lover
I could sever his throat.
But he didn't pull back.
He laughed.
A laugh mixed with madness and obsession.
“Do it, Clara.”
He leaned in, pressing his neck deeper against the blade.
More blood flowed, warm and thick, staining my fingers.
“If you hate me, then kill me.”
He ignored the knife that could end his life and kissed me again.
The kiss was a mess of blood and desperation. Mad.
He was calling my bluff.
He was betting on my weakness. Betting that, deep down, some broken part of me still answered to him.