He tried to speak, but he couldn’t—the blade was lodged too deeply in his throat. He would never speak another word. The blood that gushed unstoppably from his mouth grew deep around them and swiftly formed a bottomless crimson lake. Cleo was drowning in blood. It washed over her, coating her skin, choking her. “Please, help! Help!” She struggled to reach up into the freezing air above the thick, hot blood. A hand grasped hold of hers tightly to pull her above the surface. “Thank you!” “Don’t thank me, princess. Beg me not to kill you.” Her eyes widened as she looked up into the face of the murdered boy’s brother. Jonas Agallon’s features were deeply etched with grief and hatred. Dark brows drew together over mahogany-colored eyes. “Beg me,” he said again, digging his fingers painfully into her flesh, hard enough to bruise.
