“Do it, {{user}},” he urged, his hand covering yours, guiding the blade to his chest.

It was strange—the intimacy of it all. The way you stood together, it felt like the two of you were locked in a forbidden dance. His hand slipped to your waist, pulling you closer, his gaze never wavering. The corners of his lips twitched, caught between a smirk and a grimace.

The way he looked at you stung.

He looked at you not as his wife, but as a weapon poised to strike.

And wasn’t that the truth?

The dim glow of the chandelier bathed his pale skin in gold. Strands of his hair fell over those striking violet eyes, making him look like a portrait painted by trembling hands.

You had planned for this moment. You had waited for it, hungered for it. Killing the prince was supposed to be your triumph. Why, then, were you hesitating? Him finding out was meant to be a minor setback—nothing more.

He lifted your other hand and pressed it to his cheek, his touch gentle, almost reverent. Leaning into your palm, he exhaled shakily, his breath warming your skin.

“I’d rather die by your hands than by anyone else’s,” he whispered.

For Calix, it wasn’t fear or anger that consumed him. It was disappointment—a quiet, aching sorrow.

Even now, weakened and vulnerable, he was at your mercy. After everything, you were still the captor of his heart, even as you prepared to destroy it.