Page 32 of Ruined Wolfsbane

With every last remaining ounce of strength I have, I use my hands to push myself off the stair step. I can feel my skin and muscle rip further as I fling myself back. Panting, I curl my legs up and wrap my arms around them to protect the injury as best as I can.

I must pass out because the next time I open my eyes, I’m alone. I’m lying in a pool of my own sticky, rapidly cooling blood. Groaning, it takes me several tries to push up onto shaky arms. I sit on my ass, trying to figure out how to get up without leaning on my swollen and tender knees.

While I’m down here, I need to clean up the blood puddle. Using my right arm, I carefully inch my tank top up and over my head. I try to jostle my broken ribs as little as possible. My tank is already soaked with blood on the front. I use the back to clean up the white marble as best as I can. When only a few streaks remain, I call it quits. It’ll have to be good enough.

Seeing no other way to get off the floor, I slowly turn onto my hands and knees. Pain flares sharply in my ribs at the motion. My abused knees protest holding up my weight. Eventually I get myself onto my feet. I hobble as quickly as I can to the column where I stashed my backpack. If I leave it down here, it’ll be gone in the morning.

Clutching my bag in my right hand, I limp up the stairs to my room. Pulling open the door, I step inside before closing and locking it. If Patrick wants to murder me tonight, the lock won’t keep him out. But it’s the thought that counts.

I let my bag thump against the ground. Making my way to my nightstand, I yank open the top drawer. Spotting the sewing kit I keep in there for just this reason, I take it out with shaking fingers.

Threading the curved needle seems to take forever as steadying my hands proves nearly impossible. Once the needle is threaded, I pinch my torn skin and muscle together with my left hand. Gritting my teeth, I begin the gruesome task of stitching up the gaping wound with my other hand.

I’d rather not bleed to death tonight.

Once my least favorite part of my post-beating ritual is done, I tie and snip the last thread. Dropping the needle and scissors on the ground, I stumble the few steps to my bed. Crawling in and carefully lying on my back, I gratefully let the blackness hovering on the edges of my vision claim me.

CHAPTER 15

BRIAR

The magical space between sleep and wakefulness is my favorite place. I’m too awake to have nightmares but too asleep to remember the shitshow that’s my life. Lingering in semiconsciousness for as long as possible, I finally blink open my eyes when the sunlight becomes too bright to ignore.

Wait. Sunlight?

Oh shit.

My alarm must not have gone off. I’m always up before sunrise to get ready and to class on time.

I jackknife into a sitting position in alarm… or I try to. A searing pain in my side causes me to abandon my efforts and flop back into the bed. At the pain, the night before comes hurtling back to me.

Looking down, I see my entire left side is covered in dried blood. From the band of my sports bra to the waistband of my once gray joggers, I’m painted in flaking rust-colored blood. I must have lost a lot of blood with how saturated the top of my sweatpants are.

The blood is going to be a time and a half to get out of my clothes, if it even comes out. There’s probably something wrong with me that my first thought at realizing I’m covered in blood is how I’ll clean my clothes. Oh well. I’ll just add it to the other million and one reasons I’m fucked-up.

Glancing back down at my side, I see… hot pink thread? Christ. I must have been thinking of Rory when I stitched myself up last night. That’s the only reason I would have chosen pink instead of something sensible like black or badass like blue.

Turning my head to the clock on my nightstand, I see that it’s already eight o’clock. I guess I’m missing my first class.

Sorry, Xander.

I feel like I got hit by a stampede of semitrucks. One of them ran me over. Then the other ten followed suit just for good measure. I’m not really in any shape to go to classes at all today. I should probably email the Grimms about my absence, but I’m all out of fucks to give today. I can talk to them tomorrow about it. They probably won’t even notice I’m gone.

My rumbling stomach reminds me that I need fuel to power the ungodly amount of healing my body’s trying to do. First, I need to clean the blood off me. Rolling over as gently as I can, I slowly push into a sitting position. I swing my legs off the bed before standing up cautiously.

My broken ribs sharply protest any movement, including every time I take a breath. My knees are already feeling better than last night, so that’s good news at least. Shuffling over to my bathroom, I lean against the doorframe when I reach it. I’m already out of breath just from walking ten feet.

Once I catch my breath, I hobble to the vanity. Pulling out a fluffy gray washcloth, I wet it in warm water and gingerly clean my side with gentle strokes, pausing to rinse the cloth twice. After a few minutes, I get all the blood off, but my side doesn’t look much better. My entire torso is a mess of black, blue, and purple bruises. I notice that my lip’s also swollen, and I’m sporting a fading shiner. Looking at it doesn’t make me feel any better. I turn away from the mirror and head to the toilet.

After finishing up in the bathroom, I head back out into my room. Spotting my tattered black backpack by the door, I remember that my phone died last night.

When I reach my backpack, I dig around for my phone so I can plug it in. My fingers brush against the soft cotton of Malachi’s shirt. Being enveloped by his scent sounds like heaven right now. After a brief internal debate, I carefully take off my stained sports bra and then slip on his shirt. Almost instantly, I feel better being surrounded by his smoky scent.

Returning to my original task, I finally find my phone. Once it’s plugged in, I leave my room in search of food. Usually, the risk of bumping into Patrick would be enough to keep me in my room, but I need food. If he wants to finish the job, then he can be my guest. Otherwise, I’m getting my damn sandwiches.

The trek to the gaudy kitchen is uneventful. Patrick’s kitchen is over the top, like everything else in this house. Restaurant-quality appliances, Carrara marble counters, and fourteen karat gold hardware dominate the space.

By the silence shrouding the house, I don’t think anyone else is here. I’m able to make my three overflowing sandwiches in peace. Stuffing my bounty onto a single plate, I carefully carry it back to my room. I scarf down the three massive turkey, beef, and cheese sandwiches in record time.

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