Page 101 of The Blood we Crave

I nod, chewing the inside of my cheek as I try to leverage my body up. Searing pain spreads across my abdomen, and my hands reach for the wounds on my stomach.

“I’ll bandage those inside.” He says, still not looking at me, content with keeping his eyes forward.

When he told me I was coming with him, I thought he wanted to give me a ride to my home. I hadn’t realized that wasn’t the case until we were deep into town, headed towards his residence.

“Is your grandmother— mean, is she—” A blush heats my cheeks. “Is she okay with me being here?”

It feels naïve to ask something like that, this trivial thing in the face of everything we are going through. But May Pierson is a lovely woman, and I would hate to disrespect her, even If I desperately need a shower.

“The west wing of the house is mine. She rarely visits it. She won’t even know you’re here.”

The car pulls into the front of the house, coming to a gradual stop before he places it into park.

“Does she—” I swallow, glancing at him. “Does she know who I am?”

He knows what I mean. I’m not asking if she knows if we are friends. I’m asking to find out if she knows who I am to their family. The girl that sent Henry Pierson to jail, her son, and lived to tell the story of my mother’s death.

“Yes.”

I don’t have time to react or ask further questions, because his slender legs are climbing out of the vehicle. I think I might prefer snarky, sarcastic, always interrupting me Thatcher than this dry, straight to the point one.

His stillness is throwing me off.

Exhaustion suffocates me, my bones aching as I reach for the door handle, barely able to push it open. My adrenaline had crashed hard, leaving me weak.

The drive of the hungry, the urge that fueled my strength had gone away. Retreated, tucked away inside of that dark cave in my soul where it slept full and sated. It had left me to deal with the aftermath alone. Feeling empty and lost.

That’s the issue with this thing. Once everything steadies, the anger and need to do harm fades to black, the emotional pain still lives. It still breathes and exists inside of me like a perpetual open wound. Always bleeding.

Killing him had fed the urge to kill.

It did not heal the wound.

It did not take away the memory of their hands on me or the sound of their voices in my ear. It did not erase the burning in my chest from the lack of oxygen. My revenge had been enough to curb the craving for violence and broken bones.

But it would never chase out the fear of watching my mother die or somehow avenge her life. I’d done it because they deserved to pay for what they did, but it didn’t change anything.

Could never change anything.

My knees wobble, standing on my own for only a second, before Thatcher’s slender arm snakes around my waist, his other cupping my legs and sweeping me up from the ground.

In one elegant movement, I’m scooped up into his arms. The chill of his body icing out the thoughts that seem to eat me alive when I’m all deserted in my mind.

In his arms, I am not alone.

I stare at the side of his face, his jaw set as he says nothing. Just carries me in his arms as if I weigh nothing, as if this is just a normal thing we do every single day.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

I fight a smile, casting my gaze down. “Okay.”

The walk to the far left side of the house is quiet, my ear resting against his chest, counting the beats of his heart. It’s a perfect rhythm, just the right amount of pressure, steady and a healthy tempo. The sound soothed my own.

I have very few healthy emotional memories.

Like when people smell a familiar scent or suddenly remember an embarrassing high school incident, you feel that shame all over again. Or maybe the rush of winning a game you played. It is more powerful than just a memory that you just recall. Those triggers give you the ability to relive those occasions once again.

But mine are different. All my triggers are connected to memories that leave me scared and angry.