Page 72 of Like a Hurricane

“You need to make it look like you shot me in the head, right? Does it matter if it’s front or back?”

“Well, no,” he frowns.

I nod, understanding, before I cross the room and pluck up his hunting knife. The blade glints in the light, the edge so damn sharp I doubt I’d have to really press hard for it to cut me. “So how much blood?”

“Put that down,” he growls, storming towards me.

I move the knife away from him, “How much, Everett?”

“Put it down, Arryn,” he demands, “you are not cutting yourself with that blade.”

“We need blood, Everett, so if I have to cut myself then I will. I want this to be over.”

“Give it to me.” His tone broaches no arguments.

“Everett, please,” I practically beg, “I need this to be over. We need to do this.”

“Give it to me,” he says.

Knowing there was no way I was winning or successfully doing it without him stopping me, I hand him the knife.

“Go lay down on the floor in front of the couch, on your front, facing away from the door.”

My limbs tremble and my palms sweat as my heart picks up speed inside my chest. Everything screams that this is wrong, that I am in danger but inherently I know I am not. Blowing out a shaky breath, I get to my knees and then balance on my hands, subtly looking back to where Rett stands with the knife in one hand and the blade resting on his palm. He watches me carefully.

“Lay down.”

I lay myself down gently, steadying my breath and turn my face towards the burning fire. Behind me I could hear him. He moves towards me and then sucks in a sharp, pained breath before the knife clatters to the floor.

It took a shit ton of strength not to move. Not to go to him. I knew what he had just done, and I wanted to make sure he was okay. I wanted to take care of him, clean him up but I couldn’t. Not yet.

He stops behind me, and his hand suddenly pushes into my hair. I feel the wetness of his blood trickle down the back of my scalp as he mats up my hair, coating it in his blood. Once he’s happy the back of my head is thoroughly coated in his blood, he moves his hand away, but he doesn’t move.

With him so close, I can hear the drip of his blood as it flows from the wound he’s inflicted on his hand. He’s making a puddle behind my head and once he’s done that, he moves around to the front of me. He’s pale, his skin looking a little clammy like he’s sick and there’s so much blood covering his palm, dripping off the side and onto the floor.

He hovers his hand over my face, and I can’t help but flinch when the first drop of warm blood lands on my cheek. He lets several more hit my skin before he takes his hand away and grabs a rag, wrapping it tightly around his palm. The edges of the rag are instantly soaked red, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I lay as still as I can, not wanting to disturb the scene Rett has created. He works quietly and once his hand is thoroughly wrapped and he’s satisfied, he moves to the fire and leans towards the edge, swiping his thumb there and gathering soot against his skin.

My brows pull down in confusion as he starts to rub it between his fingers, lightening the black color to more of a grey before he then starts to smudge it under my eyes.

His breath rushes out of him shakily.

“Keep your eyes open,” he orders gently, “Stare towards the window, do not move, try to hold your breath.”

I nod subtly.

“Good girl, it’ll be over soon.” He assures me, though I think it’s also for himself.

He stands and steps away from me, and I listen to his careful footsteps as he crosses the room before he then comes back to me.

“Still, princess. Hold still.”

I focus my eyes on the window, holding them open for as long as I can as Rett moves around above me. It feels like forever holding the same position, my heart pounding and begging for me to take a big breath instead of the slow, small ones I am taking. My eyes sting, the unforgiving floor bites into my cheekbone but still, I lay there, not moving. Lifeless. Dead.

Rett drops his phone onto the couch and then he’s next to me, pulling me up from the floor, wiping his fingers over my cheeks, over the blood he put there, and his mouth is on mine. Desperate, full of need. I kiss him back; the metallic tang of blood is on my tongue, but I don’t stop him.

“Shower,” He rasps, “I need to get this blood off you.”

He helps me from the floor and ushers me urgently towards the bathroom, getting the shower running.

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