81

Camila

Asher is dead.

I’ve never seen him so still. Even in his most brooding moments, he radiated life. But lying on the floor, his throat split apart in a clean gash, ashen skin coated in blood, he’s as lifeless as a rock. The man who was constantly strong … a symbol of power … is no more.

And there’s so much blood.

The trail of glistening red goes from Asher to the tip of the knife in Madison’s hand. She crouches over Asher’s body, legs bent like a gargoyle perched on a roof. She shifts almost imperceptibly to turn one eye on me.

Her lips twist into a smirk as if to say, You’re next.

And it’s true. Because what defense do I have against a trained killer? She took down Asher with ease. I’ll be a cakewalk.

“Madison, no,” I whisper. My mouth is too dry; the words are too quiet. But again, I know it doesn’t matter. Screaming won’t stall her mission.

She rises, stalking toward me with the patience of a wolf cornering a rabbit. The knife flips into her other hand, leaving a trail of bloo