It definitely stings worse than having the wind knocked out of me as Anthony slams my back into this alley wall and tries to make it look like he’s fighting to get a knife in my throat.
Standing at the entrance to the alleyway he pulled me in to, Azalea watches, palms to her cheeks in mock horror. She looks like an alien attempting to replicate a human emotion. She’s actually the worst actress I’ve ever met in my life, which makes me infinitely glad this entire thing is a ruse.
Were she actually a part of a scheme to kill someone, she’d be caught and locked up immediately.
Using the fuel of my disappointment that nothing over the past few weeks has come close to changing my dear dove’s mind about wanting me dead, I turn the tables on Anthony and slam him against the brick wall. His knife launches from his hand and skitters across the cement toward…
My muscles stiffen as both Anthony’s and my attention shoot after the weapon, which is now lying unassumingly at Azalea’s feet.
Her cartoonishly shocked eyes widen on it, and she blinks.
Anthony and I meet gazes, communicating concerns via looks alone considering all I can see are his eyes within his ski mask. He cuts his attention up the alley and away from Azalea. I provide an imperceptible nod, because, yes, it would be best if he flees now, before things get worse.
Oh no. So sad. Another assassination attempt failed.
Azalea opens her purse, removes a Lysol wipe from a plastic bag, then bends down.
Yep. That’s our cue.
Time’s up.
Anthony loosens his grip, so I can get the upper hand.
Azalea—nose wrinkled—wipes down the handle of the knife.
I get a believable strike in, sending Anthony to the ground. He scrambles upright and makes to bolt right as Azalea tests her grip on the weapon and begins her advance.
Heaving breath as Anthony darts, I twist on my heel an instant before my beloved can plunge cold steel into my back.
Adorably, she squeaks. Whites of her eyes massive, she looks between me and Anthony as he disappears from the alleyway behind me.
I stare at her.
She tenses, offering the knife. “I was going to give you this,” she states, as though disappointment isn’t rampant in her tone. Both her face and voice flatten. “But I guess I was too late.”
Oh darling. Do try and sound more disappointed.
With a sigh, I avoid the blade and sweep her into my arms.
A gurgled protest escapes her, but I hold tight anyway, listening to the sound of metal hitting the ground once again.
“Si—” She vibrates, limbs jerky as panic fills her. “Cro—” Breaths harsh, wetness grips her. “Malcolm.” Pleading dampens her resolve. “Please. You’re…”
“Alive.”
She whimpers, though whether it’s because I’maliveordirty and touching heris anyone’s guess.
It’s honestly most likely both.
Finding the strength to be mildly benevolent, I release her, staring down as she caves in on herself. Benevolence abandons me at the sight, and I fit a dirty, but gloved, hand to her face. She rakes in air. Her eyes squeeze shut, tears building at the corners. My strength dissipates. My mouth goes dry.
“Please,” she whispers, as though I’m the one willing to stab her.
Well…
Apparently, I’m willing to do far worse.
Lifting her face, I lean in, freezing only when her bright blue eyes squint open in the shadows. A tear falls, painting her cheek in a lovely shimmer of dampness and desperation. It’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.Sheis the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
