Malachai's eyes blow wide.
A punched-out gasp leaves his lips and warms my forehead. His hand falls from my cheek.
There's a terrible, muffled thud as his knees hit the tiles. He crumbles, hands curling around his midriff. His glasses skitter across the floor.
I am still holding the knife, my grip too tight on the handle. Warm, red blood leaks off the blade and onto my hand. It drips down my elbow and onto the floor, punctuating the silence with a hypnotic rhythm.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Best-case scenario, I've just killed a man.
Worst-case scenario, I've just royally pissed off a demon prince.
Either way, my life will never be the same again and, all in all, I feel no remorse.
It's strange. All this week, I've been agonizing over things that don't matter. My mind spiraling into new points of panic, my dreams haunted by a creature I wasn't sure was real or imagined. The solution is so simple I'm almost pissed at myself for not figuring it out sooner.
