“You told me you loved me,” he spat out.
I shrugged my shoulders, “I told you a lot of things.” One step forward, a flick of my hand and the last gasp of breath he would ever take. “Doesn’t mean it was true,” I whispered in his ear.
He looked up at me, eyes glazed over in a teary haze. Those blue eyes I had once said were the only ones I wanted on me. Those same eyes that were now slowly being drained of life, which is assuming that there was any in the first place.
The once neat auburn curls that I routinely ran my fingers through every night before bed, were now tousled and unkempt. Such a sorry state for a man of his status.
And the beautiful ruby red, thick as the syrup he often doused his breakfast in, that now dripped down the silver of my blade and my steady hand. The constant dripping, a sound so melodic it beat the famous symphonies that toured the capital. The ones he never allowed me to attend.
That ruby red, now pooling at my feet, had consumed my dreams every night since I first laid eyes on him.
My lips kissed his forehead one last time and I watched as I withdrew the jewelled dagger, my hand sure and steady. The pathetic gift my husband had given me for my Name Day. Now finally put to good use.
He fell to the floor with a wet thump.
I would have to purchase a new carpet. Even now, lying motionless on the floor, he was still an inconvenience. Yet, I still couldn’t keep the smile from my face.
The King was dead.
Long live the Queen.