Page 19 of Scars Run Deep

But on that bridge, in those moments, the depth of those feelings on his end had really hit me down deep.

Hell, it had ripped me open.

Ripped me open.

I jolted as I looked in the mirror and blood splatters covered my face, my neck, over the tops of my breasts, down to the edge of the towel wrapped around me.

My eyes were wide and bloodshot, like I was fucking high out of my mind.

And my hands were dripping.

“No,” I gasped, staggering back.

I looked at the floor, but there were no drops of blood there.

I blinked hard and turned my hands over.

Nothing there either. My hands were clean.

I glanced at the mirror again.

There was no blood anywhere. Not on my face, my neck. Nothing.

I sucked in some much-needed air, panting, sweat breaking out on my forehead and the back of my neck. My hands were shaking.

It hadn’t been real.

I’d just imagined it.

I was just freaking out.

It was my mind playing tricks on me.

Punishing me.

Because of what I’d done.

Not on that battlefield. No, that had been different. I’d only done what I’d had to do there.

But in that basement… down there it had been another story.

I hadn’t just responded with an equal show of force.

I hadn’t just been defending myself, or the guys.

I’d taken it much further than that.

Stop. Stop thinking about it.

It was too late.

A flash slammed into me.

A blade sank into flesh, tearing it open.

A throat. It was a throat being sliced into.

Deeper it drove and deeper still.

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