The scalpel struck again — not the chest, not the heart — but the leg.
A second stab.
Deeper this time.
Just below the first.
Pain vibrated through the limb. My knee buckled. I went down hard, one arm flailing for balance, the other locking instinctively around the fresh wound.
Still no artery. He missed it again.
No — he avoided it.
Luther wasn't lashing out blindly.
He wanted me to feel it.
But he didn't want to kill me. That means at least one petal will stay intact.
The scalpel clattered to the ground between us. He didn't try to pick it up. Didn't move toward me.
His hands were trembling again. He backed away, shoulders pressed to the wall, eyes locked on me like I was some kind of monster.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
He was panting.
Shaking.
His knuckles were white against the wall.
I held pressure to the wound. Heat pulsed from it in waves, blood soaking the fabric. My fingers felt slick, sticky.
