I’m stronger.
Nothing’s more important than pulling him back from the abyss. Years ago, Alaric fought for me. Stayed at my bedside. Killed my abusive mother.
I haven’t gotten used to that last part yet. I haven’t had a moment to process that she’s actually dead, not when warmth and gratitude are all I feel. So much of it, which is why I’m not going to fail Alaric.
My feet pad silently across the floor until I find what I’m looking for. The same knife Alaric used to carve my name into his skin.
It’s gleaming in the moonlight, lying on a dish towel next to the sink. Knowing Alaric, he probably cleaned it within an inch of its life. He must have sterilized it too.
I’m good to go.
I snatch the knife and sneak back into his bedroom.
Ours.
My sense of mission solidifies the closer I get. Impatience doubles in size.
The need to prove to him that we’re not two people, but one, spreads through my veins.
Just as fast, sadness eclipses my determination.
What if he’s too lost inside his head for my plan to work?
What if he’s truly convinced that he’s one of the bad guys?
What then?
By the time I stand at the doorway to our bedroom, because I don’t want to be alone when I cut myself, I’m shivering, my breath as quick as my pulse.
The trembling in my fingers worsens as I hook them into one of the thin straps of my nightgown.
It’s going to be okay.
Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I suck in a deep breath and power through.
Kind of. The shivering won’t stop, and it’s fine, since—ah, there. The strap falls off myshoulder.
Other side. I move the knife, which suddenly feels heavy, to my other hand. Repeat the motions with the second strap. The feel of it sliding over my sensitive skin makes my breath catch.
Thankfully, the quiet gasp doesn’t wake Alaric.
The gown pools at my feet, and I step out of it and into the bedroom. With an unsteady hand, I press the tip of the knife under my ribs.
I jab the knife in, but I can’t break the skin. Dammit. The trembling.
As I worry my bottom lip, frustration fills my eyes with tears.
You’ve got this, Lil.
Hope’s voice inside my head helps me push through despite the tremors.
Ow!
Fuck. I don’t think I’m doing it right. The cut isn’t surface-level. It’s deeper.
Too deep, it looks like. The blood streaking down my hipbone feels thicker than it should. It’s a heavier trickle than I saw when Alaric carved my name onto himself.
I’ll just have to be more careful from here. And the mess I leave on the floor, I’ll clean it up once I’m done.