Marry or Kill

27

M I N A

Noah snaps at Nicolas, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "One wrong word, and I'll cut out your jugulars," he warns, his eyes fixed on Nicolas's purple finger.

A hint of pleasure flickers across Noah's face.

In the corner of my vision, a silvery light slips along the sharpened edge of his knife.

"Threatening him is not worth the trouble he makes," Sol says, brushing past both of them, stifling back the roll of her eyes at Noah's angry stance.

We all stand around a large table. In the middle, there are weapons of all sorts. It's almost like Noah is daring Nicolas to lunge for one when he steps right beside him, nearly brushing Nicolas's shoulder. His eyes are like large pools of menace—I've never seen him like this.

They both seem to disregard Sol entirely, locked in a silent battle of lethal gazes exchanged. Sol casually waves her hand, slumping into her seat, already bored with the futile squabble unfolding before us.

"Rest assured, I won't reach for a weapon, but my fingers always find a purpose, especially when it comes to necks," Nicolas declares with a steely resolve, fixing his gaze on Noah.

I can almost sense the fiery intensity of Nicolas's stare penetrating deeper under Noah's skin, akin to the unyielding edge of a sharp knife.

Faster than I can clock, Noah's knife slices the frail skin underneath Nicolas's chin. A sharp hiss escapes Nicolas's lips as he instinctively reaches up, fingers grazing the blood now trickling down and staining his fingertips.

I stare, slightly pale, at Nicolas's face splitting into a Cheshire cat's grin instead.

A whisper of anticipation sounds in the air as Noah clenches the knife in his hand, fingers turning into an explosive white.

"Really, Noah? Was that truly necessary?" Sol says, but her voice sounds less firm than it usually is.

It sounds like she's about to... laugh. She kicks her feet onto the wooden table and leans back in her chair as if it's an entertaining show.

"We need Nicolas alive... at least somewhat," I add, crossing my arms with a bored sigh.

Sol snickers out loud. "If you start to go on a finger-breaking spree fueled with that truly ferocious glare, Noah, make sure to set aside a thumb for me." I realize that not only is Sol threatening Nicolas, but it's enough to make him give us more information.

Noticeably, his face cracks a little before it slips back into a cool indifference.

On the other side of Nicolas's shoulder, a vice-like grip constricts by Noah, stealing the air right out of his throat.

"I'm feeling unusually generous, Nicolas," Noah drawls. "So, I'll give Sol the luxury of one thumb, just because she enjoys savoring the slow moments. It can be a tad tedious for me to endure when it's especially slow, which only happens when you get on her bad side," he remarks, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Sol sends a wink in Nicolas's direction. "And, you know, my ears start to ache."

I realize Noah is starting to sound a lot like Elias—like he's adopted Elias's cold and dark words to taunt Nicolas for the time-being.

A shiver slides down my spine, sending trails of goosebumps in its wake.

"I'd prefer to avoid decorating the dining room floorboards with Nicolas's blood," Elias says in the doorway, the yellow, warm lighting caressing the back of his suit. "After all, that would be a waste, wouldn't it? A half-broken body doesn't make much of a spectacle."