Page 61 of Dreadful
He jolts back as if I’ve slapped him. “You’re going to kick me out?”
Guilt makes me wince, but I nod sharply. “You’re feeling better now, right? Did you ride your motorcycle here? I think a cab would be better. I’ll call for one to take you back to the barbershop.”
“Don’t bother. I can make my own way.”
He pushes from the bed to stand, but he narrows his eyes on his way up. “Wait, how did you—”
Suddenly, his face slackens, his eyes roll back, and he collapses onto the bed.
“Merda!” I jump onto the bed and cup his cheek. “Sever? Are you okay?”
No response. I’m officially out of my depth. I can sew his skin as if it’s fabric, but what do I do when he passes out? Am I supposed to wake him up? Do I leave him to come to on his own? Did he faint from blood loss or pain? And does that change how I’m supposed to react?
Worry takes over the song in my head as I brainstorm how to fix him. I scan him for any hint to tell me what he needs right now, but I get sidetracked along the way.
His intense eyes are closed, so I don’t feel like he can see through me anymore. The full, sensual lips I just kissed are perfectly parted. My hand on his cheek lifts to hover over his warm skin—
I should stop here. Get up and clean the bloody mess around us.
But my hand drifts down…
The hard and chiseled muscles in his chest are soft now, and his inhales and exhales gently rise and fall at a steady cadence. Two gorgeous tattoos line his ribs. He obviously got it a while ago, since the dark green stems and the vines that wrap around them are faded. When I see the flower at the top—a black, closed bulb—I gasp.
It’s a black tulip. A Queen of Night tattoo.
I clap my hand over my mouth to keep from saying anything, but my questions sprint through my mind. I trace the dark purple petals before I can stop myself.
Why does he have a black tulip tattoo? What does it mean to him…when it means everything to me?
A broad hand wraps around my wrist, and I’m instantly thankful my T-shirt has long sleeves. Sev pulls my hand to his chest and places it over his heart.
“Wh-why the tulip?”
He studies me, and I can’t tell whether he sees right through me or if he’s about to let me see through him.
“There was a girl once. I let her down. She loved black tulips.”
“What happened to her?” My voice is so hoarse I can barely hear myself.
I don’t know why I ask. I don’t care what he says, and I don’t care about him. I can’t. Once my list is over, so is my life. I’ve already made peace with the fact that there’s no way I survive this vendetta. A relationship with anyone, especially Sev, is a recipe for disaster, a distraction, and full of heartbreak.
“She died. I survived, but I’ve never lived.”
“I…I know what you mean.”
All I’ve done my entire life is survive. I survived my father making deals with the devil, even when the devil came to collect his due. I survived those nights in that basement and my perilous escape. I’ve survived the shame that’s plagued me with voices and nightmares.
Everyone talks about survivors after trauma. But not all survivorslive. How do we do that in a world that betrayed us? After we escaped our torment, we were merely given a pat on the back, a “survivor” label on our chest, and sent on our way.
I’ve always struggled with that, and instead of unpacking my trauma, I’ve spent my days hell-bent on revenge. But could there be more than that for me?
He gazes up at me, his face inscrutable. I don’t know how to manage the emotions aching and fluttering in my chest all at the same time. The urge to lean over and kiss him again is strong, but I can’t. He’s still too much of an unknown, too dangerous.
Like last night, why did he kill Percy? Was it reallyforme? Or does he have some other agenda? Does he just get his rocks off killing people? I can’t take not knowing, but I’m not sure how much longer I can take not kissing him either.
His eyes flicker over my face, studying me like a book before boring into my soul. One hand lifts up and pushes back a curl. They’ve spilled out of the braided crown that I knotted them up in. His fingertips caress my skin, down my cheek, and I barely resist leaning into his palm. He continues to trail down my jawline until he traces my jawline and its uneven ridges.
His eyes narrow.
