Page 130 of Damsel in Disguise

It never breaks skin but lingers at that edge long enough to make the threat unmistakable.

I need to handle this situation with absolute calmness.

Drawing in a slow, measured breath, I force everything into alignment before opening my eyes.

“There’s still time to clear out the misunderstanding.”

“I fed my besties to piranhas for you, and this is how you dismiss me?” the sobs thicken around the accusation.

The words spill out unevenly, fractured between mockery and something far too real.

Is this a performance? Or is she unraveling in layers I haven’t accounted for?

“You still care about her, don’t you?” she presses, emphasizing the last word as the blade finally breaks skin, drawing a thin, deliberate line across Delilah’s throat.

She gasps sharply, her body jerking in Ariella’s hold.

Ariella doesn’t react. Rather, almost absently, she smears the blood across Delilah’s skin with the blunt edge of the knife, rougher this time—dragging, tugging at the torn synthetic skin with intentional pressure.

Reaching for Delilah now would provoke her to swipe the blade again. And this time, there would be no restraint.

She’s already proven that.

I open my mouth, forcing myself to speak, to redirect, to pull her focus back to where I can control it—even if it means feeding her the words she wants to hear.

Even if it means lowering myself to something I’ve no intention of honoring—if it ensures Delilah’s survival. If it protects the loyalty I have against the Triarch Dominion until I turn the tables against them.

“She’s my wife. But you can be more.”

Her breathing stutters. Not from the words alone, but from the way they land.

She wants me? Fine, she can have me. But in my terms only.

“Let her go, and I’m all yours, Ariella.”

A fragile sound breaks from her throat, caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob, while Delilah tries to turn her head, recognition flickering in her wide eyes the moment she hears the name.

Her grip tightens just enough to draw another bead of blood from Delilah. The knife presses deeper into the wound, stopping her from looking directly at Ariella.

“Please, please, please…”

“She’s in my place, Alastor,” Ariella cuts over. “She’s even dressed like me,” she spits the words with disgust.

The misspelling of my name slips from her lips through tears. Her voice is heavier now, roughened by emotion, carrying something deeper than before.

The wrongness of it, the mispronunciation hits immediately, though it’s the second time. The first time, I thought it wasn’t deliberate since she moaned my name in the heat of the moment.

Still, the way she said my name drags against old memories in my head again, ones that I never willingly touch.

It fractures my focus.

“What did you just call me?” the question leaves me before I can suppress it.

“Alastor,” she repeats, the distortion lingering in the way her voice curls around it.

I can’t tell if it’s the rasp from crying or intentional this time.

For a brief second, my thoughts don’t align. Though it’s not the first time, the simplest thing—my own name—feels displaced.