"Derek." Our faces were less than an inch apart. "Do you really think I won't do it?"
Our hands trembled, neither yielding.
"Divorce," I hissed, "or one of us dies tonight."
The stalemate lasted only seconds. Then, with a soft laugh, he shifted his strength—guiding the blade into himself.
Pinned by his grip, I watched as the knife buried deep into his shoulder.
Blood splattered across my face.
"I told you," he whispered hoarsely, "I won't let you die before me."
"Derek!"
Grinding my teeth, I yanked the knife out.
He groaned, blood soaking us both, but when he looked at me, his eyes held only the same unwavering tenderness I remembered from years ago.
The coppery scent of blood dragged me back to that rain-soaked night in our final year of high school—when my father beat me half to death in the street.
I had collapsed then too, and it was Derek who caught me, who shielded me with his own body.
"Don't be afraid. It's okay. I'm here."
Even as glass bottles, chairs, and knives rained down on him, he grinned through the pain and said those same words.
We had once embraced in blood. Kissed in the storm.
But when love rots to its core, betrayal becomes monstrous.
I shoved him away. "Don't touch me."