Page 86 of Wicked Vile King
I turn to run, but I trip over the chair behind me, and she catches me by the hair. A moment later, I am pulled to the ground, and she's on top of me, the knife between her hands, pushing down, trying to stab me through my breastbone. She's breathing like a bull, and I'm sweating, pushing back against her forearms with all I have.
I scream and try to roll away, but when the blade lands, it slices into my shoulder. I scream again, blood-curdling, loud, and for my freaking life.
OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod!
It hurts! She's going to kill me!
The girl grunts, wrenching the blade free from my arm. Her eyes are wide, rimmed all the way in white, as she raises the bloody knife again.
OhmyfuckingGod!
I punch her with everything I have, the blow landing against her jaw and sending her reeling back. Pain explodes across my knuckles before she's torn off of me, the knife landing with a clang on the floor beside me. I scramble away from it on my hands and knees, my shoulder bleeding. When I look up from the floor, I see Saint holding the girl by the back of her thin white dress. She blinks, looks up and sees him, and bursts into tears.
He releases her as I reach the far corner of the small room.
"Alice," Saint says, his voice loud and commanding in the tiny space. "You're alive."
Wait. He knows her?
"Of c . . . c . . . course I am. I c . . . could never die," she says, "not when y . . . you needed me."
"I watched you die," he says slowly, his eyes narrowed. "I watched them carry your body away."
He. Did. What?
"I'm n . . . not d . . . dead," she says, lifting her hair to show him the scar that runs diagonally across her face and scalp. "They p . . . p . . . p . . . put me b . . . back together."
"It's been two years," he says as I start to cry. His gaze slides to me but returns to her just as quickly.
"I . . . I had to c . . . come. I g . . . got your messages."
"What messages?" he asks.
"The ones in the t . . . t . . . tv." She points to me. "I c . . . came to visit you y . . . yesterday. I thought it was h . . . her. I w . . . want the c . . . c . . . collar back. She s . . . stole my collar!"
"You thought who was her?" he presses.
"T . . . the one I p . . . pushed."
Oh God. Pushed from where?I'm going to be sick. She killed someone and thought it was me. We're here on thisouting daybecause of her.
OhGod, ohGod, ohGod.
"I want m . . . my collar back," she says again.
"No, Alice." Saint shakes his head. "Your collar went with you when you jumped."
She blinks at him, her brow furrowed, her expression turning sour.
"N . . . no!" She stomps her foot like a petulant child. " I c . . . came S . . . Saint. I am your p . . . pet."
The pieces start to slide together, and I think, for once, I finally understand. I wasn't special. I wasn't his first. I won't be his last. I am just another body in a long line of pets. It makes me cry even harder, sending pain spearing through my shoulder.
Why does it feel like he stabbed me instead?
"Alice . . ." he placates.
Since when does he use that tone with anyone?
