Page 87 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

I count how many times my chest rises and falls just before the thumping returns.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.

My body jerks. The force of the pounds on my door makes it rattle, shaking the wood as whoever waits outside demands entrance. I wet my dry lips, legs a little wobbly as I jog to the kitchen counter, grabbing a large chef’s knife from the block.

The blade shines in the dim light, and I clutch it tightly in my fist. I take my time walking to the living room, listening for footsteps outside or voices, but I’m only met with stillness.

Another song plays, and I curse myself for turning it up so loud.

I can hear my pulse in my ears as I wrap my hand around the doorknob. Taking a few steady, deep breaths and lifting the knife, I ready myself to attack as soon as it opens.

The harsh air whips into my home the second I swing the door wide.

There is nothing but perfect darkness outside. Fallen leaves whirl into small tornadoes in my front yard from the breeze, and I quickly flick on the porch light. It hums to life, casting a small glow, but I still don’t see anyone.

My brain tells me it was just the wind. But my gut says the wind doesn’t have hands strong enough to pound on a front door like that.

Taking a step through the frame, my bare feet hit the damp porch. It’s a chilly Oregon night, and my jeans and T-shirt are doing a shit job of keeping the cold out. Lowering the knife in my hand just a bit, I look left and right, seeing only the porch swing and a small table.

Everything is in its place. Nothing has been disturbed.

“Hello?” I call to the dark.

The forest surrounding my property stares back at me, trees groaning from the force of the wind, a gust of it brushing my hair in front of my face.

Yes, Lyra, good move. The psycho killer is definitely going to reply. Gods, you act like you’ve never seen a single horror movie cliché. Not a fucking one.

Giving one more scope of the porch and my front yard, I step back inside into the heat and lock the door behind me. It clicks into place, and I release a breath, dropping my forehead to the wood.

“Stupid,” I mumble to myself, lifting my head from the door and dropping it back down. “It was probably just a raccoon, a large one. A rabid raccoon!”

I laugh as I turn around. When my eyes rise up, the air in my lungs plummets and evaporates until I’m not sure how to breathe. Because it was not an animal creeping onto the porch.

“Conner?” I hesitate, trying to swallow as I stare at the man in my living room.

Conner Godfrey stands above the coffee table, looking down at my finished project. A gun rests at his side, and for a brief second, I think to myself,This is how I die.

“You finished it,” he says quietly, smiling. “It’s beautiful.”

I walk forward, the knife still fisted in my grip. A bullet travels much faster than I can throw this at him. That’s if I even hit my target.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came here for you.” He winces slightly as he finishes his sentence, the soreness of his mouth and tongue probably making it difficult for him to speak.

The last time I saw him, he was skewered with Thatcher’s blade, and I left him there to bleed. The last time we were together, he’d tried to shove his tongue down my throat.

“You shouldn’t be here, Conner,” I say calmly, not wanting to irritate the man with a more powerful weapon than me. “You need to leave.”

His eyes are glassy when he looks at me, lifting his head but also lifting the gun. He points the barrel in my direction, tilting his head.

“Have a seat, Lyra.” He motions towards the couch in front of him. “There is something I want you to see.”

I bite down so hard on the inside of my lip that I can taste blood on my tongue. My pulse presses uncomfortably against my temples. Thatcher will be home soon, right? He has to be home soon.

All I need to do is stall until he shows up.

I cross into the living room, moving cautiously as his gun tracks my movements until I’m sitting on the couch like he requested.

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