I want my hands on her face, wiping her tears, promising her she’s safe.
But it would be a lie.
And my father would enjoy the lie more than the truth.
“This is perfect,” he murmurs, and the satisfaction in his voice makes my skin crawl. “Tell me, Khai… why would I kill you now?”
He pauses, savouring it, letting the room hold its breath.
“You’ve been forged into exactly what I needed.” His voice turns almost conversational. “A weapon. My weapon. At my disposal.”
Then his attention shifts to her.
He leans in, lips hovering near her ear, too close, too intimate, and my vision goes red.
“Butshe…” he whispers, as if she can’t hear him, as if her fear is something he owns. The barrel glides along her cheek again, a mockery of tenderness. “She’s your punishment.”
His arm tightens fractionally, just enough to remind her who controls her lungs.
“A reminder,” he continues softly, “of what happens when you forget your place.”
My father smiles against her skin like a man delivering a gift.
“Of what happens,” he finishes, voice low and deadly, “when you cross me.”
“Let her go…please.”
The word tastes like defeat on my tongue, and I hate it, hate that I’m saying it, hate that I have to. My voice is barely holding together, splintering at the edges as I force the plea through clenched teeth.
“I’ll do it,” I continue, the bargain falling from me like blood. “Whatever you want. Any assignment. Any penance. I’ll fall in line,”
My throat tightens.
“Just… let her go.”
For a second, satisfaction stains his expression. Not triumph, something worse. Like he’s finally found the exact place to press until I break.
Then his gaze turns cold.
Calculating.
The shift is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it drains the room of oxygen all the same. My heartbeat pounds so hard it drowns out everything else, a roar in my ears, a drumbeat counting down the seconds I don’t have. I keep my eyes on her, only her, like looking away might make this real in a way I can’t survive.
Her tears slow, turning heavy. The fight in her is draining, not because she’s giving up, but because her body is running out of room to hold fear and breath and pain all at once. Her eyes say a thousand things she can’t voice, and every one of them guts me.
I stand there, useless.
A weapon with no target.
A man with nothing to trade except himself.
“No,” my father says at last.
One word. Final. Absolute. A verdict.
“You need to be taught a lesson.”
Emmy’s gaze locks onto mine, steady through the terror, through the trembling, and she mouths the words again like she’s anchoring herself to them.
