Putting the blade to his neck, I take a deep breath, letting that anger—the West End fury that flows through my veins—infuse my voice with stone. “I’d never name my creation after you,” I tell him, pushing the blade into his skin. “I’m naming him after this.” The knife slices as I yank it to the side, feeling the tendon cut. A wet gurgle sounds out, but I don’t look down as I hold him by the hair. Not to watch his blood spill. Not to see the life fading from his eyes. Not even to see how long it takes for his final breath to spill out of his wound. I watch my Princes, tall and strong, as I
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