“You left her there like trash you couldn’t be bothered to bury,” I murmured as I let the blade kiss his skin again, drawing a clean line across the inside of his forearm. It wasn’t deep or fatal. It was just enough to make his breath hitch and his eyes snap wide with the realization that the talking part of this was almost over.
Blood welled instantly, warm and dark, beading up as if eager to confess.
He jerked against the ropes, a strangled noise ripping out of him, but I kept my hand steady, my hum low and unbroken. The hum wasn’t for him. It never was. It was for me—so I didn’t rush. So I didn’t let anger dictate the cut.
My mother used to make me do it when I was young. Said a steady rhythm gave a man time to remember who he was before he did something he couldn’t take back.
His b
