Page 35 of Bound to the Dreadlord

I need to move.

I need to…

A glint of steel catches my eye.

The dagger.

I can barely breathe as I stare at the blade resting against the nightstand, within reach.

My pulse thunders as my fingers slide toward it, slow, careful, waiting for any sign of movement, any indication that he has caught on to what I am about to do.

Nothing.

His breathing is steady.

Unbothered.

My hand closes around the hilt.

Cold steel, sharp and waiting.

My grip is steady as I lift it—as I turn it toward him.

The blade hovers over his throat, the dim glow of the dying fire casting a gleam across his obsidian skin.

One slice.

That is all it would take.

One slice.

I have to do this.

I have to.

And yet my hand shakes.

The blade trembles, refusing to obey, my grip faltering as if even in his unconsciousness, he knows.

He knows.

My throat tightens.

This is my chance.

My only chance.

But I can’t.

I can’t do it.

The realization hits me like a knife to the chest, sinking deep, lodging into something I don’t want to name.

I exhale sharply, a sound of frustration and something else.

Before I can second-guess myself, before I can force myself to finish what I started?—

I throw the dagger.

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