Marry or Kill

42

S O L

"Did I not tell you to get up and not be weak?" The sharp, cold voice slices through the air, unmistakably Malia's, even before I looked up, my wet hair clinging like tendrils to my face. She then acknowledges the guards behind me, and says, "Leave us."

Meeting her gaze, I sense the disappointment lingering in her eyes as they scrutinise my back.

"You've made me weak with that poison," I retort sharply as I step into the room, the bitter taste of defiance colouring my words. "I could have fought him off my neck."

"No one fights off Atticus without more scars," Malia replies calmly, before closing the door behind her with a definitive click.

A dark stairwell stretches before us, its narrow confines seeming to constrict with each step we take. The walls, painted a deep shade of charcoal, absorbed what little light filtered in from above, casting long shadows that danced along the edges of the steps.

The air hangs heavy with the scent of dampness, tinged with the unmistakable metallic tang of blood. I grimace, wondering what happens down here. It clings to the walls like a palpable presence. Cobwebs drape lazily across the staircase, and across the ceiling.

As we descend further into the stairwell, the temperature plummets, sending a chill coursing through my veins. The only sound is the hollow echo of our footsteps, as I follow her down.

Malia's gaze remain fixed ahead, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

"Why are we here?" I venture, my voice barely above a whisper, the words swallowed by the darkness as we seep lower.

"Our voices will echo," Malia replies, silencing me, and her tone betraying nothing of her true intentions.

Finally, as we reach the bottom of the staircase, a heavy wooden door looms before us, its surface scarred and weathered with age. Malia hesitates for a moment, her hand hovering over the tarnished doorknob, before turning to face me with a grim look.

Malia's presence seems otherworldly as she stands before me, clad in a pale white dress that flowed like mist around her slender frame, contrasting starkly with her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

Yet, her complexion appears unnaturally pale, similar to a ghostly pallor. The water seeps beneath the surface, kissing the hem of her dress, but she remains indifferent as if she's detached to the world around her.

As the door unlocks with an ominous click, the sound of dripping water echoes through the room, mingling with the faint scent of gasoline.

My senses naturally heighten, a primal instinct urging caution as I scan the room, my gaze drawn to the matches scattered nearby.

But before I can fully comprehend the situation, Malia's hand closes around the grip of a gun resting ominously on the table.

Panic surges through me, adrenaline flooding my veins as I instinctively raise my fists in a defensive stance.

She's going to try to kill me.

With a swift, fluid motion, I turn to confront her, only to find myself met with a blockade of unexpected strength. Malia moves with a preternatural speed, blocking my attack effortlessly, her movements a blur of grace and precision.

In the struggle, my hand tears through the fabric of her dress, exposing her sleeve and revealing a labyrinth of scars etched into every nook and cranny of her arms.

The sight makes me hesitate.

"It might come as a surprise, but not everyone wants to kill you," Malia seethes, her words dripping with malice as she steps away from me.