Page 22 of Blood Loss (The Obscura Saga #2)

L A THAN

There’s been an unswallowable tightness in his chest since Maria left him in the kitchen dicing mangos to collect the laundry. He’s been ignoring it for minutes, assuming it’s just another bout of misdirected anxiety.

It isn’t.

Lathan’s washing his hands in the sink as Maria screams. There’s a hushed thumping, as if someone’s running above him, and then her voice cracks over the second floor banister.

“HELP! Call 911 —It’s Kylo!”

Lathan leaves the tap running to round the staircase. He takes the steps three at a time, projecting him up in a mere second. He slips past Maria with unintelligible speed and into the childhood bedroom of his mate—only for every millimetre of his body to go hot, and then very, very cold.

He takes it all in too quickly and his brain bypasses the mess of papers strewn about—but not those vials. The small glass containers still winking with stardust residue.

Maria’s laundry basket has been dropped in the doorway, tripping him, and he falls hard on his knees by Kylo’s side. He scoops his face into his hands, searching his shrunken eyes—pupils hidden—for life. A thin film of sweat coats his neck, and yet Lathan’s never felt the wolf so cool to the touch. And while in his grip, the gurgled choking coming up his throat quickly dissolves, and an intense ache fills Lathan’s chest.

“It’s an overdose,” he says flatly. He doesn’t have time to feel. To react. To beg. To barter. “Stardust. Tell 911.”

Maria pats her pockets violently as the words leave Lathan’s mouth, and then she races away from the door. Lathan rolls Kylo onto his side and holds him there; foam bubbles from bluish lips, onto the rug, freeing his throat. He tries to clear his own throat and the ragged burn of acid up his chest wall, but it doesn’t budge.

When Maria returns, she’s already speaking with dispatch. “Yes, s-stardust. I-I’m sure.”

The words must be hard for her to say, because she isn’t sure. How can she be when she never knew her son was doing drugs in the first place?

How can Lathan be when he didn’t know Kylo had relapsed?

“Yes, he’s still breathing. It’s shallow. H-his lips are blue…a-and he’s foaming at the mouth.” Her voice trembles with her chin, tears slipping from her eyes—which are locked on to the excruciating sight before her. “Mhm,” she chokes, “yes, we have him on his side. Okay…but—okay.”

She places the cell phone on the ground, setting the device on speaker, and then she snags one of the towels from her laundry pile and wipes the froth from Kylo’s mouth. “They’re almost here. We’re gonna turn him on his back a-and do CPR. Right?”

“Yes,” confirms the operator, “but if you’re untrained or uncomfortable with mouth-to-mouth, just focus on chest compressions.”

Maria nods as she and Lathan turn Kylo onto his back. “But he’s still breathing,” Lathan says harshly, but the truth is, even in the moments he’s been in this room, Kylo’s chest has settled, his pulse weak, his heart a whisper. And every second becomes more painful—physically—to watch.

“That’s okay,” the woman’s calm voice assures, and Lathan knows it’s only because she, too, knows what’s happening: Kylo’s dying. “Two hands, one over the other, in the centre of his chest. With straight arms, use your body weight to push into his chest.”

Maria’s hands tremble violently as she lifts them, struggling to envision herself doing the motion to her son. As she lets out an uncontrolled sob, Lathan interlaces his fingers and presses the heel of his hand into Kylo’s chest. He grits his teeth, narrowing his eyes, bracing against the growing pain in his own heart as he does compressions on his mate. His mind is blank, yet scrambled, like television static—a connection that wants to be made, but just fundamentally can’t. Everything all at once. And nothing. He coughs into his shoulder to try and alleviate the burn around his heart’s musculature, but it doesn’t help.

Maria stares at Lathan with horror, then lifts her hands over her mouth to cover the cries of a mother losing her child.

The operator’s voice breaks through the unbearable feeling of Kylo’s chest bending under pressure. “The paramedics are just pulling down the street now. Once they arrive, you can hang up or I can disconnect this call.”

Maria scrambles to her feet, taking the phone with her as she runs to meet the emergency crew.

Lathan’s vision goes dark. He can’t see anything around him but his hands essentially cracking Kylo’s ribs, the paled skin of his dying love, and the empty vials of murderous stardust on the rug. His shoulders have locked, refusing to stop, to let Kylo’s heart stop beating.

But it feels like his will. It feels, more and more, like his chest is about to explode, and he grunts painfully with the compressions. Angry. Hurt. Betrayed. Guilty. So fucking guilty.

How didn’t I know? How long has he been using again? He blinks through his tunnel vision and fixates on the torn notebook pages scattered about, recognizing the trim size from Kylo’s pocketbook.

I killed him

I fucking ate him

get out get out get out get out

I AM NOT LIKE YOU TREVOR

Lathan gasps in a shaky breath and squeezes his eyes shut. I did this. He never got better. It’s my fault. I killed him. I killed him. I killed him.

“It’s alright.” A man in uniform is suddenly crouched before Lathan, startling his eyes back open. “We can take it from here.”

Lathan notices the second paramedic readying the backboard to transport Kylo downstairs. In the man’s hand beside him is a vial of orange liquid.

Lathan shakes his head aggressively, his hair flying in his face, and doesn’t look at the paramedic in front of him, eyes trained on the unresponsive body below. “I can’t stop. If I stop, he’ll die.” I’m supposed to protect him. I’m supposed to keep him safe.

“I have naloxone here to reverse some of the effects, but you need to stop so I can administer it and we can get him to the hospital,” the man says as he reaches a sympathetic hand over Lathan’s.

He continues compressions for a few more beats before ripping himself away, forcefully, and letting the medics rush in. As soon as he does, he feels it—Kylo flatlines. And Lathan’s body lets him know.

He coughs and grips at his chest, throwing his head back and kicking his feet to find purchase. When he can’t, he rolls onto his knees, clamping his jaw so tight he gives himself a headache. His heart beats slowly, but each pulse is wicked and sharp and fills his rib cage with expanding pressure that makes it hard to breathe.

As the male paramedic dispenses the naloxone into Kylo’s arm—a direct injection instead of a nasal spray—the other tries to kneel by Lathan, but he waves her off and points to Kylo. While part of him is fighting to understand what’s happening, he also instinctually knows it’s their bond.

And this is what it feels like when your mate dies.

Post-injection, compressions are resumed, and air is forced to inflate his lungs by a manual squeezable bag secured over Kylo’s nose and mouth. And the pain continues in the longest minutes of his life, until Kylo’s eyes roll forward and he intakes a breath on his own.

He’s alive.

Without wasting time, the paramedics shuffle him onto the backboard and carry him out of the room. Once they hit the stairs, Maria toes over to Lathan in the corner.

“I know it hurts, but can you walk?”

Lathan is able to take in a proper breath of his own as Kylo does—like his lungs are in tune with the wolf’s. His chest aches, hands shake without him realizing, and he continues to cough like he’s just ran a marathon and the lactic acid is ruminating within him. But he nods. And picks himself off the ground. His balance wobbles, but he ignores it, bracing a hand on the wall as he leaves the bedroom—stomping atop the papers still taunting him from the ground. He puts a hand gently on Maria’s back in support; he’s unable to make himself speak like he did before. Now that he’s felt Kylo die.

Maria helps him balance, nudged into his side, as they make their way to the ambulance bus, where Kylo’s already on the stretcher being loaded inside.

“You two can join Sylvia in the back,” the first paramedic instructs, holding the doors open for them.

Lathan hesitates—only for a brief second—before climbing aboard. Seeing Kylo like this is more difficult than he could have ever dreamed. Catching him high on stardust was already enough back in their dorm, but he was awake , he was responsive . Like this, he’s not even Kylo. And the terror Lathan feels is unmatched to anything.

It doesn’t compare to his parents’ abuse.

It doesn’t come close to living every day with the knowledge that he’s killed someone.

‘ Without them, what are you? ’ his mother recently asked.

If there’s no Kylo, there’s no Lathan.

And that realization sinks deep beneath his skin, shrouds his heart, beating lamely with the echo of pain each time. He hangs his head, but keeps his dark eyes on Kylo and a fist massaging the centre of his own chest.

Maria sits on the bench next to Lathan and, with an arm around him, rubs his back with a soothing pattern. He doesn’t shrug her away—he barely feels her touch at all under the burn searing his heart—but he wants to. Because he doesn’t deserve her comfort. He didn’t know Kylo was using again, even though the signs were right under his fucking nose—the red eyes after the beach, the distancing, the lack of eating—but he did know he’s used in the past. He’s just as guilty.

Once at the hospital bay, the medics are prompt with ushering them out, toward the waiting room, while they bring Kylo past triage and straight into the ER. Lathan watches the doctors and nurses rush to the stretcher, watches them all disappear into a treatment room that he and Maria aren’t allowed to follow into. He lingers as the doors shut him out, as if by doing so he’ll be able to see through them, hear their treatment plans. He hasn’t taken a deep breath since Maria’s scream.

Off to the chairs, she sits and calls David, whimpering to him over the phone that something’s happened and he needs to hurry. “It was an overdose,” she squeaks, and then hiccups with a hand over her mouth again, nodding at whatever David is saying in response.

Lathan feels her looking at the back of his head, but he can’t meet her gaze. Can’t give her the reassurance she needs. The gentle answers she’s hoping for.

Because I’m the reason this happened.

When she’s off the phone, she saunters back to Lathan and takes a seat next to him with a sigh, not bothering to wipe clean her wet cheeks.

“David’ll be here soon,” she says under her breath. “I can imagine what this must feel like for you, with the bond. It’s hard enough to see, let alone feel…” Her eyes shut tightly and she shakes her head. “I’m here for you, too, Lathan.”

The stabbing in his chest hasn’t subsided. It isn’t as intense—Kylo isn’t dead—but Lathan’s whole body is clenched to accommodate the pain. And it’s the kind that just isn’t describable.

He hears her, but doesn’t look at her. He remains statuesque in front of the ER doors. Until they’re pushed open and the paramedics roll their stretcher back out toward their vehicle. Lathan snags the arm of the closest medic—too firmly.

“Is he okay?” he demands, voice husky as if he’s thirsty, but it’s only from bodily strain.

The man looks at Lathan’s grip, stopping. “The doctors have him now,” he says. It isn’t what Lathan wants to hear, but their prolonged eye contact eventually makes him drop the medic’s arm. They both offer Lathan and Maria sympathetic looks as they leave the hospital.

He watches them leave, scratching at his sternum, absentmindedly trying to ease the soreness as he backs into the chair beside Maria. Lathan struggles to show vulnerability. And right now isn’t the time. To let the threat of their bond breaking postmortem shake him to the point he can’t be strong for Kylo and the Garcias.

As he stares at his shoes, flat-footed on the hospital’s white and pink tile floors, his jaw flexes, hands balling into fists atop his thighs. “Have you felt it?” he asks quietly, curious if she truly knows what it feels like.

Maria doesn’t meet his eyes but she does nod. “David was hurt when the kids were little, before Kylo was born…I felt it deep in my core before I even knew what happened. I was so scared…” She finally wipes under her eyes, then reaches out a hand and places it gently onto Lathan in support.

His lip quivers and he lowers his head to hide it as he gathers himself. His knuckles have gone white with their clench—he feels like he’s going to burst at the seams irreparably. This pain is so persistent, and he realizes it isn’t even foreign. It’s the first time he’s feeling it, and yet it’s so familiar. The shattering reality of what he’s done to Kylo over the last year. Since the first time they met.

“Fuck.” He runs his tensed fingers up his face and into his hair, gripping his loose black strands so tightly that he pulls his scalp. “I did this. I did this to him.”

“No, honey”—she looks up and rubs his shoulder gently like the loving mother she is, and doesn’t deserve—“don’t say that.”

Lathan scrunches his face, eyes becoming raisins, forehead creased, lips pressed taut. I can’t pulses in his mind, a visceral, full-body thought that he can’t wrack. That he doesn’t understand fully, but he feels all over. I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t Ican’tfuckingdothisanymore .

“This is my fault,” he says firmly, sitting back up.

“What does that mean?”

Maria looks up at her husband and her brows dip, lip pouting. It’s their baby. The oopsie child they were so excited to have, to raise, to love. And now he’s hurt. Worse than he’s ever been. Than they’ve ever known.

Lathan’s whole body stiffens as he sees David. He folds his hands into each other, crossing and then recrossing his fingers—he can’t get them comfortable. Not as they squirm with his inner atrocities, with the path he’s dragged Kylo down so recklessly, selfishly.

Maria and David don’t know. They have no idea what their son has been through the past year, nor why. Who caused it. But Lathan does; he lives with his sins every day, wishing for a different way to have met his mate. Sometimes wishing they’d never met at all, so he doesn’t have to live with the reality that he’s hurt him so severely.

They have to know the truth. He can’t be a part of their family, a part of their pack, if they don’t know what kind of monster he really is.

“Our venom is an aphrodisiac,” he says in a meek voice. “It can induce a high like certain drugs.” He swallows hard, his throat raw and dry and he hates how the memories he’s trying to speak of are making him thirsty. For Kylo.

“You fed on him?” David’s bright eyes—dampened by tears—are wide and hurt. “What happened? Tell us everything .” This time his voice is gruff, harsh, mirroring the way his face is beginning to harden.

Lathan hangs his head. “It’s how we met,” he admits, his heart shuddering sadly—it’s both a memory he cherishes, for it gave him a mate , and one he actively hates himself for. “Then I didn’t see him until after the summer, when we became roommates. I guess he…went searching for it again—the feeling my venom had. And it put him in danger. He was attacked, almost killed… And he didn’t stop. He kept going after Kylo. He assaulted him,” he says, and then feels nauseous with guilt, because it isn’t his story to t ell—he’s just the villain of it. “Kylo started using to cope with it.” He sits up, his eyes glassy, and manages to meet David’s protective, angry gaze. “I did this to him. I introduced him to this.”

“Lathan…,” Maria squeaks, but he notices how her mouth wants to say mijo and she corrects herself. Her face is stained with shock, eyes glazed over, lips tensed into a trembling line, her hands tight to her chest, as if holding herself back from another round of sobs.

David’s expression is almost the same as his mate’s. “That…that all happened this past year?” he mutters under his breath with heartbreak. Then he hardens again, this time the anger slipping out further. “How often did you feed on him? And don’t you fucking lie to us.”

Lathan swallows again, taken aback by David’s crudeness—though, it’s warranted. He never counted how many times he’s consumed Kylo’s blood, and so his eyes dart away, thinking, hiding.

“A few times,” he says, small and helpless.

“How could you? My son isn’t your meal ticket! He’s been going through all of that, he was… assaulted ”—David can’t say the word without it being a crackled whisper, forced out though unbearable grief—“and you still fed on him? He’s not your fucking blood bag to whore out!”

Lathan’s jaw unfurls; he stares with big, pained eyes back at David. His heart thunders, nearly as painful as when Kylo flatlined—reacting to the words Trevor himself used about Kylo. ‘ Meal ticket .’

No , he wants to say, I didn’t feed on him after he was assaulted. But he did. Just a few months ago. And again on his birthday. He did. And he didn’t ask permission—not really. Kylo may have given it, but they didn’t discuss it.

Nothing comes out of his throat. No sound to defend himself. No pleas for forgiveness. No denial of what he’s done. He just stares, his very soul aching, his hands clutched hard together to keep from quivering.

“I can’t even look at you,” David bites, and then storms off.

Maria watches her husband walk away, then looks to Lathan before looking back to her husband. It’s obvious she is hurt from the new information, even if she’s trying her best to be Switzerland.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice tense and high-pitched. “This is just…a lot.”

With a saddened look of disappointment, she stands and keeps her eyes on the floor as she walks off after David.

Dizzy in the wake of it all, Lathan’s wobbly legs carry him back out the doors the paramedics left through, guiding himself with a hand on the hospital’s gritty exterior wall, around to the side of the building.

That’s it , he realizes, his vision warping the landscape around him. The family he felt he was finally creating, finally a part of, is gone. He’s destroyed their trust. He’s destroyed his own. It’s over. He’s alone again.

He pukes into a bed of flowers, gripping his thighs as he heaves in waves. When his stomach ceases to ripple, he whines and falls back onto his ass. Shaking hands run through his tousled hair, gripping tight, too tight, and black strands are pulled out when he moves his fingers away. He sobs, a body-folding sensation he can’t control, can’t breathe through, and he hyperventilates alone along the hospital’s wall.

All he can think of is pain.

How much of it he feels.

How much he’s caused.

And how he needs to—deserves to—feel more.