His voice has no effect. His influence is useless, no longer touching them. Miles knows now he's made a fatal miscalculation, vastly underestimating the little human's strength and conviction. Where he'd perhaps expected them to beg, to grovel, to weep and comply and fold to his cruel demands like cheap cloth—or, like a true coward, hoped they'd just sleep through it all—they're instead alight with vengeful fury, their parental instinct to protect overriding any fear they ever felt towards the wolf. He is no longer their Alpha. He is a threat to their daughter.
Their daughter who wails and cries for them, reaching through her link for them, articulating what she doesn't have the words or comprehension to express by any other means. And Kurt, so fundamentally changed in every way by having her, reacts the only way they can. They clench the heavy handle of the knife—stupidly, carelessly left locked in the bedside drawer the way Miles always does when he sleeps, the drawer now left ripped open in a pile of splinters inside the cabin—and lunges at Miles with a boneshaking roar.
The knife glides through flesh like water, the meticulous care Miles took to sharpen the blade now coming back to haunt him. The very instrument he'd used to torture them, terrorize them, is now turned on him as Kurt indiscriminately stabs and slashes his body, the knife plunging between his ribs, into his stomach, cutting open arms raised in defense, splitting his throat in a single devastating swipe. The blade does half the job. Kurt's blinding rage does the rest.
It doesn't matter if he's still alive when he hits the ground like so much useless meat, crumbling with a pathetic gurgle of blood in what remains of his throat. He won't survive for long. It's only then that Kurt even seems to notice their father, eyes wild when they find him, their entire blood-soaked body turning to face him, now the sole focus of their savage wrath. "You."
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Their daughter who wails and cries for them, reaching through her link for them, articulating what she doesn't have the words or comprehension to express by any other means. And Kurt, so fundamentally changed in every way by having her, reacts the only way they can. They clench the heavy handle of the knife—stupidly, carelessly left locked in the bedside drawer the way Miles always does when he sleeps, the drawer now left ripped open in a pile of splinters inside the cabin—and lunges at Miles with a boneshaking roar.
The knife glides through flesh like water, the meticulous care Miles took to sharpen the blade now coming back to haunt him. The very instrument he'd used to torture them, terrorize them, is now turned on him as Kurt indiscriminately stabs and slashes his body, the knife plunging between his ribs, into his stomach, cutting open arms raised in defense, splitting his throat in a single devastating swipe. The blade does half the job. Kurt's blinding rage does the rest.
It doesn't matter if he's still alive when he hits the ground like so much useless meat, crumbling with a pathetic gurgle of blood in what remains of his throat. He won't survive for long. It's only then that Kurt even seems to notice their father, eyes wild when they find him, their entire blood-soaked body turning to face him, now the sole focus of their savage wrath. "You."