Page 82 of Marrying My Professor

I lower my gaze, looking at James's body one more time. Making sure. Confirming.

Dead. Definitely dead. So much blood that there's no possibility of survival, no chance of last-minute rescue.

I did it.

I actually did it.

The realization hits me all at once—the enormity of what I've just done, the line I've crossed, the person I've become. I've killed someone. Deliberately. With planning and precision and absolute intent.

I should feel something. Guilt, maybe. Horror. Remorse.

Instead, all I feel is satisfied.

I stand on shaking legs, retrieving the blade because leaving it would be stupid, evidence that could tie back to me. I wipe it clean on James's cape—the red fabric hides the blood perfectly—then slide it back into its sheath beneath my dress.

Then I walk out of the alcove.

The maze seems different now. Brighter somehow, or maybe that's just my perception. I follow the path back toward the entrance, taking turns I barely remember, my body moving on autopilot while my mind tries to process what just happened.

I pass performers who don't react to the blood covering me—probably think it's part of my costume, part of the show. An angel covered in gore is exactly the kind of aesthetic this maze would employ for maximum scare factor.

I pass initiates who barely glance at me, too focused on their own terror and determination to notice anything off.

And then I'm at the entrance. Light spilling in from outside, the sound of the observation deck getting louder—conversation and laughter and completely normal party sounds.

I step out of the maze into afternoon sunlight.

Someone screams.

The sound cuts through the ambient noise like a knife, high and piercing and full of genuine horror. Heads turn. Conversations stop. Everyone's attention pivots to me standing at the maze entrance, covered in blood, my white wings dripping red onto grass.

For a moment, no one moves. We all just freeze in a tableau of shock and disbelief.

Then Alexander is there.

Moving faster than I've ever seen him move, crossing the clearing in long strides, a dark cloak already in his hands. He reaches me in seconds, wrapping the fabric around my shoulders, covering the blood-soaked dress, pulling me close against his chest.

"I've got you," he murmurs into my hair, and his voice is steady, calm, completely unaffected by the chaos erupting around us. "I've got you, Pet. Just stay close."

"Alexander—" I start, but he cuts me off with a slight shake of his head.

"Not here. Not now. Just walk with me."

He guides me away from the entrance, away from the screaming and the crowd gathering, away from the questions that are starting to form. His arm around my shoulders is both supportive and controlling, keeping me upright while steering me toward the parking area.

Behind us, I hear someone shouting for medical assistance. Someone else calling for security. The organized chaos of emergency response kicking into gear.

But by then, Alexander has me in his car. Engine starting. Doors locked. Pulling out of the clearing before anyone thinks to stop us.

"Did you—" he starts.

"Yes." My voice comes out hoarse, raw, like I've been screaming even though I haven't made a sound since leaving the alcove. "It's done. He's dead."

Alexander's hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles going white. Then he releases a long, shaking breath. "Good. Good. We'll talk about everything once we're home. Once you're cleaned up and safe and⁠—"

"I don't regret it," I interrupt, needing him to know, needing him to understand. "I don't regret any of it. I'd do it again."

He reaches over, his hand finding mine, squeezing tight enough to hurt. "I know. I know you would. And I'd help you do it again. Every single time."