Page 14 of Ruthless Silence
The door clicks shut. We're alone for the first time as husband and wife.
I don't hesitate. My hand finds the blade, pulls it free, strikes in one motion born from a thousand practices. The steel sings through the air toward his throat.
His hand catches my wrist. Not rough, not violent. Just absolute. Complete control without aggression.
I expect rage. I expect him to break my wrist, throw me against the wall, make me pay. Instead, his eyes are calm, almost sad, like he's disappointed by my technique rather than my intention.
My left hand goes for his face, nails ready to claw, but he catches that too. Now he holds both my wrists, and we're frozen: me in attack position, him in perfect control. There's no anger in his face. Just that devastating patience that makes me want to scream.
With slow, deliberate movements, he adjusts my grip on the blade. His fingers correct my form, repositioning my hand for better leverage. The heat from his touch races up my arm, and my body remembers that handshake, that electric connection, even as I try to kill him. Traitor flesh, responding to enemy hands.
He's teaching me. While I'm actively trying to kill him, he's showing me how to do it properly.
My exhausted mind can't process this. The room spins slightly.
He guides the blade to his own throat, places the edge against his skin where his pulse beats steady and calm. His eyes hold mine with dark promise. Like he's saying: 'Even your violence belongs to me now.'
My hand shakes. From rage? Fear? The impossible intimacy of him teaching me to kill him? The blade trembles against his throat, and a thin line of red appears. Just a scratch, but proof that the edge is sharp enough.
He releases my wrists and steps back. Takes my left hand, the one without the blade, and turns it palm up. Then he places the knife handle firmly in my left hand. His touch lingers, thumb pressing against my palm like he's marking what's his.
His hands move in signs I understand perfectly: "You're left-handed. Use your strength."
How does he know? Have his men been watching me that closely? Heat floods my stomach, wetness gathering between my thighs.
He walks to the door, hand on the handle. Then he turns back, hands moving through one more message: "Next time, mean it."
The door closes with a soft click, leaving me alone with my failure and my body's betrayal.
I stand frozen, knife raised in my left hand, the correct hand, seeing my fractured reflection in the blade. A bride in white lace, face flushed with fury and shameful arousal, holding a weapon with newly corrected form.
What just happened? He taught me. Mid-assassination attempt, while I tried to kill him, he adjusted my grip like apatient instructor. Like he wants me to succeed next time. Like my vengeance matters enough to do properly.
The knife pendant burns heavier at my throat, mocking the real blade in my hand. He gave me jewelry, and now he's taught me to use the real thing. Against him.
My decade of planning, of preparation, of hatred carefully tended like a poison garden, he just redirected it with gentle corrections. Not destroyed. Redirected. Like I'm a child playing at murder who needs proper instruction.
No.Worse. He understands the need but wants me to execute it properly. He's not dismissing my hatred. He's honoring it with education.
"Everything alright in there?" Marco's voice carries through the door, authority mixing with what sounds like amusement.
Two knocks sound against the wood, Dante's response. Quick, efficient. Yes, everything is fine. My husband speaks in violence and silence, and somehow his brother understands perfectly.
I lower the knife finally, my arm trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline. In the mirror, I see someone I don't recognize. White dress still pristine, hair still perfectly arranged, looking every inch the virgin bride. Except for the blade in my left hand and the knowledge in my eyes. And the wetness between my thighs from my enemy's touch.
I'm married to a man who just gave me permission to kill him properly. Who saw my murderous intent and chose to improve my technique rather than punish my attempt.
My fingers move through the signs almost unconsciously, asking my reflection the question I can't voice: "What kind of monster are you?"
But I know the answer now. He's the kind who teaches his assassin proper form. The kind who signs "I do" while knowinghis bride plans murder. The kind who kisses like a whisper but holds like a promise.
And I'm married to him.
The knife feels heavier in my left hand, the correct hand. My body still burns where he touched me, adjusting my grip. Even my violence belongs to him now.
What kind of monster teaches his killer how to kill him properly?
The kind I just married.
