Page 62 of The Captive
"What—" she began, voice rough with sleep.
I didn't give her time to finish. With a strangled cry, I drove the knife downward, aiming for her chest. But she was faster than I expected, rolling away with startling grace. The blade struck the mattress, sinking deep into plush bedding as Aoife tumbled to the floor on the opposite side.
"You bitch!" I snarled, yanking the knife free and lunging after her. "He's mine! MINE!"
Aoife scrambled to her feet with a fighter's agility, her eyes darting around the room for a weapon. "Beatrice," she said, her voice measured despite her obvious alarm. "This won't end well for you."
I laughed, a high, wild sound that barely resembled humour. "It's already over for you. You're just too stupid to realize it."
I feinted left, then slashed right, the blade whistling through air as Aoife dodged with maddening ease. Dammit.
But I had something she didn't right in that moment: absolute purpose. I pressed forward, driving her back against the wall with relentless attacks. Her breath came in short gasps, her eyes never leaving the knife as she evaded each strike by narrowing margins.
"He doesn't want you," Aoife said, trying to negotiate even as she retreated. "You saw us. You know the truth."
"SHUT UP!" I screamed, slashing wildly. The tip of the blade caught her forearm, drawing a thin line of blood. "You've turned him against me! You've poisoned his mind!"
Her eyes widened fractionally—not with fear, but with understanding. "This isn't about me," she said softly. "This is about you not being able to accept that he made his choice."
Something snapped inside me at her words. With an inhuman howl, I threw myself at her, knife extended. We crashed to the floor together, my weight pinning her smaller frame as I drove the blade toward her throat.
Her hand shot up, catching my wrist in a grip of surprising strength. We struggled, trembling with effort, the knife suspended inches from her jugular. Her other hand clawed at my face, nails raking across my cheek in desperate defence.
"You're insane," she gasped, muscles straining as she fought to keep the blade at bay. "You need help, Beatrice."
"I need Alexander," I snarled, pressing harder, watching the knife edge inch closer to her flesh. "And you're in the way."
She bucked beneath me, trying to throw me off, but I clung to her like a parasite, using my greater weight to maintain advantage. With my free hand, I covered her mouth, muffling her cries for help.
But I'd underestimated her again. Even with one hand restraining my knife arm and her mouth covered, Aoife managed to draw enough breath to scream—not just any cry, but a name:
"ALEXANDER!" The sound tore from her throat, echoing through the moonlit bedroom with shocking volume despite my restraining hand.
I slammed her head against the floor with one hand, desperate to silence her. "Shut up! SHUT UP!"
The knife trembled between us as her eyes burned into mine, green fire against my blue ice.
Footsteps thundered in the hallway, growing louder. The bedroom door crashed open, and light from the hallway spilled across our tangled forms.
"Beatrice." Alexander's voice was cool and even, but with an undercurrent of lethal promise. "Let her go."
I didn't look up, couldn't tear my gaze from Aoife's face, couldn't relax my grip on the knife still hovering above her throat. "She took you from me," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "She doesn't understand you like I do. She doesn't know what you need."
Alexander stepped closer, his movements deliberate, measured. "Put down the knife, Beatrice."
"We were perfect together," I insisted, ignoring the weapon in his hand, focused only on making him understand. "In the maze. You remember, don't you? How you made me beg? How you found the part of me no one else had ever seen?"
Beneath me, Aoife's struggles had stilled, her eyes darting between Alexander and me. She was listening, calculating, waiting for her opportunity. The cunning bitch.
"I remember," Alexander said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. "I remember all of it."
Hope bloomed in my chest, sweet and painful. "Then you know. You know we belong together. She's nothing—just an obstacle. Once she's gone?—"
"If you hurt her," Alexander interrupted, steel beneath the quiet words, "there is nowhere on this earth you could hide from me."
The tenderness in his voice when he spoke of her shattered something fundamental inside me. I looked up at last, meeting his gaze, searching for any hint of the connection we'd shared. But his eyes, when they met mine, held nothing but cold determination—and beyond that, concern for the woman beneath me.
He had chosen her. Truly chosen her.
