Page 18

When he leans down, positioning himself between my legs, I bring the stake up with everyounce of force I can muster, aiming for his shoulder to disable him.

But he shifts at the last second, and the stake plunges into his neck instead.

There’s a moment of perfect stillness. His eyes widen, shock replacing the lust and anger. Then the blood comes, so much fucking blood, pulsing out in rhythmic spurts that coat my hands, my chest, my face.

So. Much. Blood.

It’s hot against my cold skin, almost burning, and the metallic smell fills my nose instantly, making me gag.

The stake must have hit a major blood vessel in his neck. Each heartbeat forces a fresh jet of crimson through the wound, spraying in an arc that catches the dim light. His white shirt turns dark in seconds, saturated and clinging to his chest.

He makes this wet, choking sound, hands grabbing at his neck, trying to pull out the stake. But the movement only seems to make it worse. Blood bubbles from his mouth now too, seeping between his teeth and dribbling down his chin. His eyes lock with mine, filled with disbelief and rage and then, slowly, fear.

He knows he’s dying.

Dying…

I push him off me, scrambling backward until my spine hits the hedge wall. My hands slip in his blood, leaving smeared red handprints on the gravel. Hecollapses face-first, then rolls onto his back, body convulsing violently. His heels drum against the ground, sending gravel flying. A terrible gurgling comes from his throat as he tries to breathe through the blood. His hands still clutch uselessly at his neck, fingers slippery and failing to get purchase on the stake, leaving streaks across his skin with each attempt. Piss soaks through his pants as his body loses control. The convulsions grow more frantic, then gradually weaker, his back arching one final time before he goes limp.

One last wet, rattling breath escapes his lungs.

I should do something. Call someone. Try to help him. But I can’t move. Can’t look away. Can’t even catch my breath.

The convulsions slow, then stop. His eyes stare at nothing, reflecting the faint, distant lights from the house.

He’s dead. I killed him.

The thought hits me like a physical blow to the chest, making me double over. I retch, bringing up nothing but bile. My whole body shakes uncontrollably. I pull my dress down with numb, blood-slicked fingers.

What the fuck do I do now? Call the police? My father? Run?

Before I can decide, voices reach me through the fog. Familiar voices.

“...swear I heard something this way.”

“Probably just drunk party people getting lost.”

“It was definitely a scream. I’m sure of it.”

Damiano and Flint. Coming closer.

I should call out to them. Ask for help. But my voice won’t work. All that comes out is this broken noise, half sob and half moan.

It’s enough. The footsteps quicken then they’re there, appearing around the corner like they’ve materialized from the fog itself.

They both freeze when they see me, covered in blood, shaking against the hedge. Then their eyes move to Liam’s body, the stake still protruding from his neck, the blood pooling beneath him, almost black in the dim light.

“Holy fuck,” Flint breathes. He takes a step back, running his hand through his hair. “Is that... shit, that’s Liam Bastian.”

Damiano’s face goes dangerously still. “Viktor’s brother.”

The name hangs in the air between them. Even in my shocked state, I can see the color drain from Flint’s face.

“This is bad,” Flint says. “This is really fucking bad.”

Damiano moves first, kneeling beside me, careful not to touch me. “Briar. Are you hurt? Is any of this blood yours?”

I try to answer, but all that comes out is a strangled laugh that turns into tears. Words tumble out between sobs.