The Luna's Bodyguard [a mature werewolf romance]

Ch 50: King Killer

My entire life had come down to the point of a knife.

Arms quaking, I fought to turn that sinister tip away from the chest of my beloved, but a dark and malevolent force twined through bone and blood and stayed the blade's course.

I knew what it was. A life, sacrificed to lend this spell power. A spell my mother had consented to in advance on my behalf.

I could scarcely believe that this was my plan only two months ago; the foolish quest I'd embarked upon when two bounty hunters arrived on my doorstep, looking for Aurora.

Now my father's signet ring sawed into my thumb as I resisted its deadly influence.

King-killer, it whispered.

It wasn't just Nate the blade wanted. It was Fallon, too. Any titled man who might stand in my mother's way and prevent her from taking the throne.

Slaughter them all.

It was my legacy. This tragedy was whispered by the Fates hundreds of years before my birth. It was promised by my parents, who sold their firstborn to a hedge-witch for a mere hallucination of power.

It had led me here, to this marriage bed, a tangle of sweaty limbs and softly sleeping faces. To this vibrant dawn and it's false promise of prosperity, following one of the happiest nights of my life, shared with the most important men in the world.

Now I had to choose which one of them would die.

I could see it all unfolding, as if I was the Fate: by plunging the knife into one man's heart, I would alert the other, who would surely realise what was happening and find a way to stop me. But who would I choose? How could I possibly choose?

The dagger started to shake in my grip. Kill them.

The blade lurched down, only to come to a shuddering halt, scant inches from Nate's breast. The dagger thirsted for his heart most; the Pendragons were the primary targets of the spell. But he didn't look like a callous conquerer in sleep. His chest rose and fell with each gentle swell of his lungs, and his expression was smooth and peaceful, so much younger like this. Innocent, even.

I gripped the dagger with both hands, panting — quaking, creaking, silently screaming as the agonising force of a thousand years bore down on my frail skeleton.

I love him. I love him. I love him.

I clung to the chant like it was a lifeline, but I desperately needed it to be his. Love was supposed to be all powerful, wasn't it? It was supposed to trump evil wizards and killing curses and poisoned apples and frost-bound hearts. It was supposed to blaze through trauma and heal the dying and rekindle the soul.

And I loved him, Gods-damn it. I loved Nate like I loved the night itself — his velvet mystery, his soul-deep artistry, his paradoxical compassion, his infuriating arrogance and above all else his constancy. He'd taken root under my skin, under my very thoughts; he was supposed to be the father of my Gods-damned children —

The blade slipped another inch. It wasn't enough. Why the fuck isn't it enough?

Another voice, even louder, drowned out my fervent litany. You will slaughter them like the pigs they are.

Please, I thought, as tears rolled down my cheeks. Please wake up. Move! Do anything!

As if in answer, the doorknob turned. Fallon's eyes flew open, but the bond was still stifled — he had no idea why I was doing any of this. Only knew that it was happening.