Page 118 of Reckless
“The truth, always,” I murmur.
A long pause. “Sometimes I’m envious that you were the one to kill my father.”
My eyes fly open to blink bewilderedly at the back of his head. “W-what?”
He manages a sigh. “I’ve spent my whole life fantasizing of doing what you did. I’m not proud of it. But every time he would cut me, scream at me, or force me to face a fear over and over again, I fought the urge to hurt him back. And Plague knows I could have.” He quiets, voice strained. “It consumed my every thought. Because before Ihated him for everything he did to me, I hated him because he hated Ava. He never admitted it, of course, but I knew. I knew he hated that she was weak, knew that he thought she was a disgrace to the family name.”
I reach slowly for one of the canteens we refilled with rainwater, distracted by the secrets spilling from his lips. “But I couldn’t ever bring myself close to doing it.” He sighs. “No matter how hard he trained me or hated the people I loved, he was still my father. Blood and duty run deeper than hatred.”
I’m quiet for a long moment, eyes fixed on the dimly lit wall of stone before us. “And I did what you secretly wish you could have done yourself.”
“And the worst part,” he murmurs, “is that I’m supposed to hate you for it. But you are much harder to hate than he was.”
We have little water left to spare, and horrifyingly, I don’t hesitate before pouring most of it over his wound. Because, despite it all, I’ve come to realize that there is little I wouldn’t sacrifice for him.
I don’t allow myself to dwell on that sudden discovery.
“Shit,”he hisses, feeling the water sting as it seeps into his gash. “I take it back. Maybe you aren’t so hard to hate,” he grits out.
Blood is dripping down his back, staining his skin red in the dim light. My hands are covered in it, every finger sticky and smelling of the death I’m all too familiar with.
I don’t play with him. I don’t tease or take his mind off the pain. Instead, I look away as I wash out the wound, unable to stare at the stream of red. I rip fabric from what’s left of my skirt with shaky hands. I use bloody fingers to tuck the makeshift bandage beneath his chest.
Breathing heavy, I lean over his back to pull the fabric around the wound.
My braid slips from behind my shoulder, swinging until…
It drags across the pool of blood beginning to well again atop his wound.
I suck in a breath before clamping a hand around the middle of my braid, ready to toss it back over my shoulder.
My hand sticks to the hair inside my palm.
I look down slowly, my whole body shaking.
Blood is streaked through my hair, dripping from the ends and smeared from my hand. I swallow the growing lump in my throat as I tug my hand away to stare down at the blood coating it.
I smell nothing but death, hear nothing but the ringing in my ears.
I think Kai is saying something, but I ignore him as I fumble with the fabric, bloodying it as I rush to cover the wound.
I tie it off with a muffled gasp, reaching for the canteen. I manage to drain the last few drops of water into my palm before violently scrubbing my hands together. Blood swirls over my skin, running down my wrists and—
“Gray.”
His voice is stern enough to snap me out of my frenzy. I’m not sure when he sat up, but he’s facing me now, resting a gentle hand on my leg. “What’s going on?”
I shake my head, fighting the tears that threaten to fall. “It’s nothing…. It’s…” My gaze falls to my hands and the blood coating them. The same hands that held the dying bodies of those I loved most. The same hands that are forever covered in their blood.
“It’s the blood,” he says softly. “You never used to be squeamish until…”
My heart thuds against my chest, making me feel faint.
All I smell is blood. All I feel is guilt.
“I… I can’t anymore,” I pant. “I can’t feel like this anymore. It’s all too much.”
I look down at silver hair stained red. The sight of my braid has me stilling, has me hating how much power blood now holds over me. It’s an effort to slow my breathing, to steady the beat of my heart.
