Page 243 of Ruin My Life
Too far.
“We can’t fucking wait that long,” I mutter, my pulse hammering so hard it rattles my skull.
I don’t hesitate—I bolt for the SUV.
“Damon…” Brie murmurs, her voice thinner now, threads fraying.
“Shhh,” I hush her, gentler than I feel, as I wrench open the passenger door and slide her inside—careful, so fucking careful. She gasps, clutches her stomach tighter—
And I get my first real look at her.
At the fresh blood seeping through her fingers.
“Let me see.” My whisper is more plea than command.
Her shirt’s stiff with dried blood, but near her waist it’s soaked through—dark red and still wet. I peel it back slowly, and my gut twists.
Deep. Right under her ribs. Angled bad. Definitely a blade of some kind.
It’s still bleeding heavily, pulsing with every heartbeat. Too close to an artery. Too close to everything I can’t fix here.
I rip open the glove box, claw out the first-aid kit, and tear into it like a rabid animal. I find the gauze and rip the pack open with my teeth.
“This is gonna hurt,” I warn, my voice raw as I press it to her wound.
She jerks under the pressure. Her strangled cry knifes the air. Her whole body bows under my hands, trembling so hard I feel it in my bones.
And it feels likeI’mthe one stabbed.
“Pressure.Press—right here,” I rasp, guiding her cold fingers over the gauze. “Don’t let up. Squeeze. Hard. Please.”
Her breath stutters. Her lips are losing colour—fading out of my world inch by inch.
I yank off my jacket, wrap it around her, tuck it tight to stop the shaking. Then I slam the door and sprint around to the driver’s side, my hands dripping with her blood.
I’m behind the wheel before my mind catches up—key in, gas down.
I don’t care about roads. Or limits. Or who I have to plow through.
I’m not losing her.
Not after this.
Not after she survivedhim.
I rip away from the burning house like a lunatic, fishtailing onto the road, tires chewing up slush and ash as police lights and local news vans blur to nothing behind me.
They don’t matter.
Nothing does.
Except the girl bleeding out in my passenger seat.
I know the way to the local hospital. It’s small, underfunded, barely equipped for simple stitches and aspirin. But it’ll hold her long enough to get her flown out. Dahlia will be waiting at NewYork-Presbyterian. She’ll fix this. Shehasto fix this.
Brie shifts beside me, a soft, broken whimper escaping her lips.
“Stay with me, Brie,” I croak, one hand reaching to squeeze her thigh. Cold—she’s so fuckingcold. “No more running, remember?”
