NEFARIOUS • JJK

• 6 • kiss of a wife

"S-Signore?"

Any sane person would have ran. Ran away. From this graveyard of bones. I did not.

I felt myself cream in the thin piece of clothing I call a thong, Bella calls it a panty.

Fear greeted me like an old friend this time around. Who knew I get off on being controlled and manipulated? Getting afraid and doing absolutely maniacal things, like shooting at the king of the underworld.

There was no way I was pulling that trigger.

All this seemed too much of a play, a dice game I couldn't fall trap to. Millions of men have tried to kill this villain before me, plotted elaborate schemes and done every wretched thing they could to bring his empire down. Yet, it stands. I don't stand a finger against it.

Why was he giving me a chance to shoot anyway? He wasn't exactly unarmed, but his eyes reflected cool leisure. No bulletproof vest protected him. If I shot, from this up-close, with this revolver, it was sure to seep through his skin. I don't know about dying, it guaranteed fatal injury.

I don't want anyone to suffer because of me.

He took his eyes off, made them swirl around on the glass of whiskey. Set it down on the glass counter with a thud and slid it towards me.

"Some say it's the elixir of life."

I look at the liquid, knowing damn well if he cum in my mouth, I'd think otherwise about the elixir. It's supposed to be a customary offering because you're at the bar too. He's far from formal. Maybe, he wants you to have strength and power through. Really shoot him.

"I-I can't," I say this once again, my head bowing in shame. Isn't shooting him basically triggering a war? Will it make him finish me in the roughest possible wa—

He grunts. A long slim blade slides out of his pocket and glimmers against the faint light, I try to gulp the ball in my throat. He shows its edge to me. Even if something falls on it by mistake, it'll split in half. Sharper than serrated thorns. I hold my breath, waiting for a sudden move. Going for my neck or cutting my arm cause I disobeyed like a bitch. I'm useless. I hope he disciplines me. But, he doesn't angle the blade at me.

In a swift strike, the blade has pierced into his open palm. Blood drips a dark crimson. The smell wafts, the same nausea I felt before hits me. The blade is actually going through the entirety of his skin and jutting out from the back of his hand. It can be a Halloween idea except this is happening before me.

A recurring sort of trauma ricochets through my limbs and I jump, seeing the blood smoothly find its course down his arm, drip from the bar. Copious amounts. "I'm sorry." I move back, can't help but stumble close again to maybe help him. But, move back knowing its him. And, he did it to his own self.

Yes, I am dizzy. Again. This has to stop. The blade which was lodged into his hand now gets pulled out and he delicately lays it down. Like his other hand isn't bleeding a waterfall. He's unfeeling, dead nullity deepens in his eyes as he stands. Towers above me. My heart goes pounding on.

• No P.O.V. •

"Shoot me. People would die to get a chance, and you're letting it slip?" He tuts at your inability to meet his eyes.

"I-I'm sorry. You're hurt."

"Nothing hurts me, little girl." The fine shirt stretches and sticks to his wide body. Big, beautiful man. He notices how the flutters of pink dust sprinkle on your cheekbones when he draws closer each time. Oh. You're so incredibly naive. You actually like him, a fascination he hasn't ever faced. No one tries to link themselves romantically to him. Whores hide or run away when he enters a room.