Alessia Stocklin and Ezra Withers are polar opposites, but they can certainly agree on one thing: their mutual hate for each other.
He's an Alpha deadset on killing every rogue he comes across, while she's a vigilante - known as Nightshade - intent...
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"I'm sorry," I muttered, my words jumping into an incohesive mess. My breathing rapidly increased, and my vision became obscured. With each breath I took, the world around me began to shake. Not only was my mind a flutter, but my body was as well. My knees began to tremble, ready to fall out from beneath me.
I had really tried to kill my mate.
You're no better than him, I told myself. You're no better than Ezra.
As my mind clouded, my hands flew to my stomach to stop the bleeding. I could feel the slow trickle of blood flowing from my entry wound. Peering down at the wound through wet lashes, it was hard to tell the extent of my self-inflicted injury because the blood blended in so well with my red dress.
Closing my eyes, my fingers gingerly glazed over the wound, and I about fell back in relief. The wound was already healing itself; it would be nothing more than a scar in a couple of hours. While my physical wound would heal steadily, the mental scar I placed on myself would take longer to erase.
I was still in disbelief that I had really tried to kill my mate. But, at the same time, after having attempted to murder Ezra, it felt like the pressure was released from my mind. While my mind swirled down hazardous paths, the thought of killing Ezra did not plague my mind.
"Where did you get this?" Ezra drew me out of my thoughts, his voice low but commanding. I peered up from my hunched position, trying to regain composure. Smoothing the front of my dress, my eyes gravitated toward the dagger.
Ezra, who was only a few feet away from me, had his body angled to the side as a result of me pushing his away from the blade. His face was directed toward the glistening dagger that had fallen to the floor. He crouched over, his hand reached out, ready to grab hold of the blade.
"Don't," I warned frantically, extending my hand to stop him. He pulled away before his fingers could slip around the handle.
"Where did you get this knife?" Ezra asked, his voice guarded as his eyes never strayed from the intricate detailing of the dagger.
"I —" I started to say, but guilt washed up my throat. Closing my mouth, I once again tried to recompose myself.
Get a grip, I yelled at myself. You're not the one who was almost killed by their mate.
Even with an additional few seconds, I was not able to fabricate my words eloquently,. Instead, I blabbed, "I — I can explain."
"You'll explain how you almost killed me?" he cocked his eyebrows toward the moon. He clenched his jaw, his breath hot in the air.
Wincing, I further explained, "Someone named Elias—"
"Elias," Ezra's face twisted in a mix of emotions as he interrupted my explanation. I took a step back, preparing myself for the wrath Ezra would release upon me once he learned the truth. "Elias from the Beltaire Bandits?"
