Page 38 of Heartless

But I back up in spite of the pain, until my shoulder hits the wall and I can stare at the only exit from the building on this side of the haunt.

It remains empty. As if there was never anyone coming through it, though the blood on my hands is proof that I’m probably not going insane.

My hands throb as I grip the hammer, and my thigh aches as if competing with the pain building in my head. I want to move, to find my phone and call for help or at least try to make it back to the other side of the building to reunite with Reagan.

But I’m too afraid to turn my back on the open doorway.

Suddenly footsteps crunch in the grass around the corner of the building, and my stomach twists, brain screaming that I’m about to get blindsided and feel the cut of the knife on somewhere probably a lot worse than my hand or arm. In an instant, I whirl around the corner, hand with the hammer raised as I search for the knife I know the person is holding.

“Whoa,whoa.” Fingers catch my wrist deftly, stopping me before I can swing. “Winnie?”

With spots still dancing in my vision, Cassian’s face is a mix of blue eyes and black, winking spots that seem fuzzy in my eyes.

“Cassian?!” I gasp, stumbling into him. “Where’s—Did you see?—”

“Holy shit, Winnie.” His voice is softer, less panicked than mine, and takes the hammer from me while surveying his now-bloody fingers. “What the hell are you doing? Is this—Are you bleeding?”

I don’t answer right away. I turn again, looking back at the open door as my muscles tremble in the hope of relief.

“Winnie?” Cass grips my wrist, tugging me away from the door and closer to his warmth and the safety of justhim.“Winnie, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

“There was a person in the slaughterhouse,” I breathe. “I was looking for Reagan, and I—” My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. “I thought they were just some actor.” Blinking to clear the spots from my vision, I try to take a step and stumble, suddenly lightheaded.

“Whoa, hey.” Cassian catches me effortlessly. “Okay. You’re not making much sense and I really think this isyour blood.Fuck.” He moves, and without warning picks me up to throw me over his shoulder, making me yelp.

“What are you doing?” I demand, head spinning painfully as the ground is suddenly where the sky should be.

“Helping.”

“This doesn’t feel like helping.”

“Then close your pretty eyes, Winnie, because that’s what I’m doing.” He doesn’t stop, even as my phone vibrates yet again in the pocket of my denim shorts. It’s suddenly colder out here than I remember it being when we went into the slaughterhouse, and Cassian feels like a furnace under me, his arm like a warm steel band locked around my thighs.

“Aren’t you supposed to carry me like, in your arms?” I ask, only half paying attention to my own words. It’s hard to get a bearing on my surroundings, and I can’t find the door to stare at it, as if my gaze alone can keep the knife-wielding stranger at bay.

“You mean bridal style?” His steps change, crunching on gravel instead of rustling through glass. “You want me to carry you bridal style, princess?”

“Well, it would certainly be preferable to hanging upside down like a sack of potatoes,” I can’t help muttering.

“A very pretty sack of potatoes. Tell you what. When I’m sure you aren’t going to puke on me, I’m willing to open up negotiations on how I carry you. Until then—” Without warning, he leans over and pulls me off his shoulder, until I slide to my feet on loose gravel. Without his arm around me I would’ve fallen, and I curl bloody fingers into his shirt.

“Until then, my lovely sack of potatoes, I decide how we travel.” With his eyes still firmly on mine, he yanks open the passenger door of a dark colored, sleek car and gently pushes me onto the seat.

“What are you doing?” The question is probably dumb, but I’m blaming it on having a hard night.

Cass grins, his blue eyes meeting mine. “Kidnapping you,” he answers sweetly, and closes the door on me before I can say another word.

Chapter

Seventeen

For the first few minutes of the ride, I’m too busy looking at the cuts on my hand and arm to see where we’re going. Neither of them is deep, and the bleeding has completely stopped. Now I just look like a murderer, with sticky, drying blood smeared across my hands and forearms.

“Damn, I liked this hoodie,” I grumble, gesturing at the ruined fabric that’s marred with drying blood as well. “I’m holding a funeral for it, and I demand you attend.” With my heart still racing and my hands shaking, it’s all I can do to wrap them in the napkins I stole from the hot chocolate stand.

“I’ll find you one you like better,” Cass murmurs from the driver’s seat, eyes fixed on the road.

“To soothe my wounded heart, can we stop by the coffee place near my house so I can get a latte? Alargelatte?” I ask, attention on my hands as I finish wrapping the cut that had nicked my wrist. “Also, can we talk about how much my hands have gone through this October?”

---