He shifted his grip on the knife. Sometime in the last ten seconds he'd gotten claws, which made it considerably more difficult to hold.
"You could have proven you had a right to live," he said. "Just a scrap of guilt. An edge. Something."
The urge to tear into him, to really rip him apart, was so close that he could taste his blood on his tongue. It would be very, very easy to give in completely, let his bones crack and twist. He could be just the wolf, revel in victory while glutting himself on Trenton's flesh.
Pulling back from that was a physical effort. He stood on the edge, and he looked down.
Apparently there was further still to fall than where he was. What had somebody said about humanity being something you had to earn?
And what was this in front of him? Some bleeding, keening shell of a playboy, a rapist with pictures of himself in his bedroom. This wasn't worth that.
He put the knife back into his bag. He stood in front of Trenton for a moment, watching him try to catch a breath. Pathetic.
"You tell anyone what happened here today, I'll see to it that you're put on trial for rape. And I mean anyone. And if you even so much as fucking touch another woman, I will fucking kill you. That is a promise."