"I am a person." My hand slides under the pillow, fingers closing around the knife handle. "I am a goddamn person who deserves respect. Who deserves actual love. Who deserves the right tochoose."
"You're being hysterical—" He shakes his head, confused. “Adelaide, untie me—"
"You kidnapped me." I pull the knife out, and he sees it. Finally sees it. "You stole me from the only place I've ever been happy. From the only person who ever truly loved me. And you've spent four months using me like I'm nothing more than a glorified sex slave."
"Adelaide,please—" His voice is high now. Panicked.
“You call yourselves kings and princes… saviors,” I say. “But all you’ve ever been afraid of is women who wake up. You never wanted me awake. You wanted me compliant.” I turn the knife around in my hand, examining it. Building up the panic within him. “You wanted submission,” I finish. “What you’re about to learn is what happens when a woman refuses.
“I’m not sleeping anymore, Benedict. I’m awake, and I am not staying in this goddamn castle one more night." I raise the knife. "I am not letting you touch me ever again."
"HELP!" he screams. "GUARDS! HEL—"
I plunge the knife into his chest.
It doesn't go in as easily as I expected. There's resistance. Muscle, bone, tissue. He screams, high-pitched and terrified, and I clamp my other hand over his mouth.
"Shut up," I hiss. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."
I pull the knife out and stab again. And again.
Blood sprays across my chest, my face, warm and copper-scented. He's thrashing against the ropes, eyes wide with terror and pain and disbelief.
It takes more effort than I thought it would. More strength. My arm burns with exertion as I drive the knife into him over and over. His chest. His throat. His stomach.
He's making horrible gurgling sounds now, blood bubbling from his mouth around my hand.
"This is what you deserve," I whisper. "This is what all of you deserve."
One more thrust, this time angled up under his ribs, searching for his heart.
His body goes rigid. Then slack.
The gurgling stops.
I stay frozen for a long moment, straddling his corpse, knife still buried in his chest. Blood is everywhere. On me. On him. On the white sheets that are now crimson.
I did it.
I killed him.
The burning in my throat subsides slightly, and I feel... nothing. No remorse. No horror. Just a cold, clear satisfaction.
I pull the knife out with a wet sound and climb off the bed. My hands are shaking now, adrenaline making my fingers tremble.
I need to move. Need to think.
I grab the blanket from the foot of the bed and pull it up over his body, leaving only his face visible. Close his eyes with blood-slicked fingers. From a distance, in the dim light, he could be sleeping.
The servants won't check on him until morning. By then, I'll be long gone.
I stumble into his bathing chamber and wash the blood off as quickly as I can. The water in the basin turns pink, then red, then clear. I scrub my skin raw, watching the evidence of my crime swirl down the drain.
My dress is in the bedroom. I purposely removed my dress and robe and placed them away from the bed so I could wear them again and go unnoticed. I put them back on with shaky hands.
I look at myself in the mirror. Wild eyes stare back at me. There's still blood under my fingernails, in my hairline.
I look like a killer. I am a killer.
