Page 131 of Damsel in Disguise

I missed it.

My eyes close briefly to rein it in, shutting down whatever tries to surface with it. That’s when she begins reciting a poem with melody. No, she’s singing something like a lullaby.

“You could say I’m hatin’ if you want to

But I only hate on her ’cause I want you.

Say I’m trippin’ if you feel like…

But you without me ain’t right…”

The edges begin to warp, collapsing the melody in on itself in my head.

“You could call me crazy ’cause I want you

And I never even ever fuckin’ met you.

Say I’m trippin’ and it ain’t right

But you without me ain’t nice, yeah.”

For a moment, the world distorts.

Hazel shifts toward blue. Golden-brown bleeds into blonde. All wrong in a way that doesn’t fully manifest but lingers just beneath the perception.

For a fraction of a second, something pushes through.

Not a full memory, just fragments of it.

My mother’s voice doesn’t surface, nor does her face. But the absence of it does, suffocating me with a familiarity that feels too close, too invasive, too real.

Only she used to sing to me like this. Only she ever called me Alastor.

I force my eyes shut, drawing in a slow, measured breath, holding it there until the stupid beating organ inside me calms down.

When I exhale, it leaves just as controlled, just as precise. Only then do I open my eyes again, locking onto Ariella’s. Consequences be damned.

“Do it.”

The knife moves as if she was waiting for my permission. A single, swift motion—clean in intent, brutal in execution.

“Alist—” Delilah begins, but the name fractures mid-syllable, collapsing into a wet, choking sound.

Blood spills immediately, rushing out of her throat faster than her synthetic brain can process.

The blade is too sharp, the force behind it too unforgiving to allow anything resembling precision. It tears through the skin rather than gliding over it.

Ariella releases her.

The body immediately hits the floor with a dull, heavy sound, lifeless in weight but not yet in function.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

We stand there, facing each other, utterly still, while Delilah fights for something she’s already lost. Her body convulses against the inevitable, choking on her own blood, each attempt at breath weaker than the last.

Blood pools outward from her, spreading across the floor in slow, deliberate expansion, reaching the black soles of Ariella’s platform boots, staining them without resistance.

My gaze flicks down briefly.