Faye

ay

ith the rain hitting my windows, as he rhythmically runs his gloved right index finger up and down the side of the

I stay here and watch him, waiting for him to make a mo

voice raspy, tangling in with the sou

her die for his cause then even acknowledge me for a second. At this point, I'm just buying time, while my mind clambers to think of a way to get out of this. The man glances up at

other person's life, just because they want the best for th

ze drifts down to the blades glinting brillia

ound comes from him. No rustle of clothes, no exhale or inhale. It's as if a barrier lies between

ing that right now. Due to his unrelenting staring, I assume he's not going to put this to an end until he's satisfied with something. At this point, this is no suicide mission. He has plenty of time to off me and escape, however, he just

y skilled father. I risk a glance at the Silent. There's no change in expression, so I continue. “He passed away from illness a few years ago. There's never a day where I don't miss him.” My voice is low. If it w

til I've dug my own grave. Yo

him to think about my death for years after he escapes from here and completes his duty. Maybe then he would move on to another d

, “they taught me how to fight, but I hardly imagine w

beating. I'm proud of how calm I've made my voice, despite how much my fingers tremble on the side of th

y and physically. You would have had to bend his will to the point where he would a

him against me, but I feel his presence. What happened to his knives? I ass

ybe you hate me, and this is your greatest pleasure,” I sigh, grabbing a silken shirt to move over to the other si

ers trail gently down my neck, then back up, as he brushes my hair back from where it

is hand down, right across the arch of my neck to my shoulde

inst my back, his warmth oddly comforting, despite the threat of his knives. Instead of relishing in the oddly satisfying feeling, I push the rest of my cloth

l consequences. It's different to any other Pack system on the Quarter, however, it makes me happy. Made me happy. It's the reason for

e is like melted honey across fresh bread, spilling smoothly across my heart, my lungs, making me struggle to breathe for a moment. Who the hell is this man? I

bed. With a fair throw, he tosses it at the door, the blade of the jagged knife wedging deep into the wood. The sound is lou, the vibrations pertinent. Whe

r Cal to come through that door. His hair is tousled to sleep, although his eyes are wide

the Silent’s hand. A Silent would fight back. An assassin would. This man didn't. It took hardly any effort on Cal’s part to have the knife out of his hand, his hands behind h

Silent’s hands behind his back securely, despite the la

t's all wrong,” I insist, ignorin

ver have to see him ever again,” Cal insists, pushing the willing assassin toward the door. I watch, unable to do anything, as I w