Insanities
She dropped the knife at his feet and felt the clank of steel on stone run through her as though it were cannon fire. She imagined that he gaped up at her, wide-eyed and in shock of her mercy, but she dared not meet those bold, amber eyes of his, like puppet strings on her heart. She always detested hypocrisy, and here she stood sparing this man for the exact crime that she condemned so many others for. She felt like filth, but. . .
Agatha Hawke was ready to end the life of her lover. He'd turned from a rebel of justice to a tormented terrorist: a murderer. He brought the wrath of ignorant, fearful subjugators down on mages everywhere after swearing to protect them—after swearing to protect her—and, before this accursed night, she had no mercy to spare for his kind. But as she anticipated her kill as she always did, with visions of tasty violence summoned by a natural bloodlust, Agatha didn't feel that sweet, familiar surge of adrenaline; she felt a gut-wrenching sickness that seared her very bones and trembled her steady hand.
She could not meet Anders's gaze, or anyone's. She could not let them know the tears that welled in her honey eyes, betraying her shame, her rage, and her love, all at once. Agatha would not allow Anders's crimes to go without consequence, but she could not be responsible for the death of someone precious to her—not again. Anders was more than precious. It had been that way for years. Agatha faltered under Anders's gaze, melted at his touch, crumbled to his will. Nothing thrilled or terrified her more than he did, and she'd never let him know of the fevers he inflicted on her, not their full extent.
However, Agatha was convinced that Anders knew; he must have. How else could every one of his wry grins warm her blood and rest her soul? Why else would he allow her to see him exhausted and weary-eyed from healing desperate refugees for just that purpose? How else could he have managed to make every second spent with him an aching bliss?
"Hawke?"
She shivered at his breathy call, one octave from cracking. Agatha tore herself from her bitter reflection to look the love of her life in the eye, if only for an instant. He had tears of his own glistening over the fiery brown of his orbs, not quite ready to leave them. His lips were parted to match the stretch of his eyes. He did not know of the insanities he'd driven her to. The pale of his skin reassured her the best: he expected her to kill him. Agatha wasn't sure if that hurt worse, or the fact that she didn't.