Page 74 of Grave Possession (Grave #2)

Chapter Sixty-two

Mallory

M y adrenaline has subsided, and despite the hot water spraying down over me, a chill has sunken all the way down to my bones. How could I have been so fucking careless and impulsive? The last thing Nox needs is a murder to investigate at his Haunt.

Maybe I’ll be fine… A bear or cougar is very likely to smell the blood and rotting flesh, coming to investigate the hearty meal I laid out for them before dragging my evidence away.

However, they’re also just as likely to pull the dead man out from the woods, and leave him on display for everyone to see.

“SON OF A BITCH!” I hiss, as water runs over the slice in my thigh. How do I know if I need stitches? It’s not an overly large gash, but it’s deep. The corner of the blade head dug deep into the meat of my leg, and it won’t stop fucking bleeding.

Wait …

Nox wanted me to play doctor and stitch him up. Does that mean we have the stuff I need in the house? There’s no way I can go to the emergency department and not have Lennox find out.

I cut the water, and press a black hand towel to my wound.

Maneuvering out of the shower is a slippery task, but I manage without falling and breaking my neck.

Hobbling to the linen closet, I jostle all the products on the shelves looking for the first-aid kit, knocking lotions and facecloths to the floor.

Victoriously, I pull out the emergency kit. I grab the rubbing alcohol as well, then turn back to the bathroom.

My head might be fuzzy from blood loss, but I know there isn’t any way in hell I didn’t track a trail of blood through the house. Fear coils like a serpent around my chest as I push the bathroom door, swinging it open all the way. Where the fuck is my costume? Where is all the evidence?

Limping down the hall toward the kitchen, there isn’t a spec of blood to be seen. The front door is closed, and the lock engaged. I know I didn’t do that, right?

The realization hits me like a freight train.

Someone knows.

That man wasn’t alone, and now his buddy has all the evidence he needs to ensnare me by the metaphorical balls.

My own blood starts to leak through the towel, dampening my hand, and dripping down my leg, effectively diverting my panic spiral. I won’t have to worry about any of this if I bleed out and die.

Back in the bathroom, I plop down on the toilet seat, the empty eye sockets of my mask peeking out at me from where it rests in the sink.

Sifting through the first aid case, I find a sterile suture kit and gloves.

Dropping the blood soaked towel to the tile floor with a wet plop , I pop the cap off the rubbing alcohol, and pour it onto the laceration.

Searing pain rips through the cut, shooting down my exposed nerves, and ricocheting beneath my skin.

A wailing scream erupts from my chest, echoing through my empty house.

When the burning subsides, a thin sheen of sweat coats my brow. I’m momentarily thankful for the Haunt, covering up the scream of agony I couldn’t contain.

I twist my body, angling myself in the most uncomfortable way possible to get the best view.

The movement splits the skin apart, and there’s no way I can stitch this up myself.

Think, Mal. Think. Can you tell Nox you fell?

That way he can play doctor this time. He’ll undoubtedly see the wound with how much you lose the ability to keep your pants on around him.

I war with myself far longer than I should, settling on having to do this myself.

I won’t pull Nox away from his first Haunt.

Grabbing the mirror off the wall, I set it on the floor, angling it so I can see my injury clearly. Something close to an electric shock jolts through my entire body, breathing life back into the panic I momentarily managed to suppress.

“I can do this,” I encourage myself. Looking in the mirror, I know without a doubt I need stitches.

The subcutaneous fat is visible in the deepest part of my cut, and the more stable threading together of my skin is necessary.

“Just one…maybe two…then I’ll use suture patc hes for the not so deep areas.

” I talk like I know what the hell I’m doing—which I don’t.

Hoping to gain some confidence in myself, which doesn’t happen.

Shaking out my hands, I force away the fear. Wishing so deeply I could find that dissociative state of mind in order to get this done, but I know I need to stay coherent and focused.

I slip my tremoring, sweaty hands into the latex gloves, and rip open the package. Thankfully, this shit is ready to go, so I won’t have to watch a how-to video on readying a needle.

Gazing into the mirror, I move my leg around until both sides of the cut meet.

Good enough, I think.

Now, deep breath.

I press the tip of the needle to my skin, the sharp point breaking swollen, tender flesh as I force it deeper into my epidermis.

My teeth sink into my bottom lip, caging my whimpers inside until I taste the tang of iron once again, except this time it’s my own.

The needle is small, and next to impossible to maintain a hold on when everything is slippery with blood.

I push it through the first side, granting myself a small moment of reprieve before thrusting it up into the other side.

Holy shit, didn’t think this could get any worse but the needle going up through the skin is even more excruciating. The fringes of my vision darken as I hold my breath, waiting for the relief of the needle popping up through the final layer of flesh.

Buck up and get this done, my subconscious snaps.

“Fuck off,” I growl right back .

Pressing down on the left side of the wound, I surge the needle up until it breaks the surface. Whooshing out my breath, I tie it off quickly. Grabbing the small scissors, I clip off the excess before grabbing another stitch kit.

Again , she demands. And don’t drag it out this time.

She is me, I remind myself. The strongest parts of my psyche ensuring I don’t crumble beneath the weight of my existence.

I rip open the package, drive the needle into my thigh, and thrust it up on the opposite side of the wound.

The sensation of my skin coming back together is sickening, the two sides moving awkwardly against each other and pulling against the threads.

I re-sanitize the injury, pat it dry, then apply suture patches.

The double beep of the front door unlocking pierces the silence, shooting my heart into my throat.

“Mal-lory… Where did you run off to, baby?” There’s a lethal edge to his tone, even if it drips with playfulness.

I know him better than he thinks I do, and I’m not dumb enough to think he isn’t the tiniest bit annoyed I dipped out of that party.

I race to bandage and wrap the laceration, the pain completely forgotten as I rush to hide all the evidence.

Opening the cabinet under the sink, I throw my mask, the first-aid kit, and garbage inside.

Rushing to wipe my blood up off the floor as the sound of his boots stomping down the hallway kicks my fear up to new heights.

Satisfied there’s no visible blood left, I throw the soiled towel under the sink too, quickly closing the doors as fast as possible.

Momentarily thankful as fuck all my towels are black, I snatch a big fluffy one off the hook, and wrap it around myself before hanging the mirror back up on the nail.

Ghost’s massive body swamps my only exit, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Quite a distance to go just to pee, don’t you think?”

I fake a laugh, my nerves getting the better of me. “Did you see how long the line was for the bathrooms?”

He nods slowly, the emotionless mask hiding his true feelings from me. His head turns just slightly, and I’m positive he’s inspecting the bathroom without wanting me to know.

“I bet it took me less time to come home. I’d still be standing in line if I stayed there.

” Silence stretches between us, causing my nervous energy to reach for the hair bush on the counter.

Turning to face the mirror, I try to focus on carefully working the tangles from my long, black hair, but it’s near impossible with his gaze boring into me from across the room.

“Mallory…” The dangerous way my name rolls off his tongue has a shiver slinking down my spine.

“What?”

“Why’d you shower?” He phrases it as a light and airy question, his tone inquisitive but dark.

Keep your cool, I tell myself. “Because I was covered in your blood.”

“Just my blood?”

Fuck.