Page 34 of The Blood we Crave

The forest works in Thatcher’s favor, a puppet on his strings as it plays the role of his partner. Shadows dance, the moist ground beneath my feet feels like it wants to swallow me, and the rain comes down in heavy pelts that hurt when I run.

It whirls my mind, confuses me, creating an impossible trap to escape.

My body goes cold with dread as I turn to glance behind me. The fog seems to move around his body, parting from his frame to avoid touching him. He stalks through the trees at a leisurely pace, unafraid of me taking off again.

There’s no rush in his step, just one controlled foot after the other as he moves in my direction. I can taste blood in my mouth from sprinting so hard, sweat spilling down my back, and I topple over every single fallen branch. My personal purgatory is coming true, and he’s barely trying.

When he tilts his gaze right at me, those glacial eyes send a prickling sensation all the way to the center of my stomach. Like ice daggers, they pierce my skin every single time he brings them my way. It’s the kind of pain I can’t run from, the kind of pain I want more of.

It doesn’t happen often, but on the rare occasion Thatcher pays attention to me, I feel as if he’s the only one in the world who actually sees me. His eyes make me alive, take me from being a ghost to a living, breathing human again.

I don’t want to run from that feeling; I want to run towards it.

But not this time. I can’t this time.

When his broad shoulders come closer into view and the moonlight strikes the sharp hollows of his face, I shiver.

“I let you go once, Scarlett.” His voice is steady, cutting through the shield of rain. “But not this time. This time, you’re going to bleed for me.”

Bleed for me.

It’s a terrible, horrid thought that flashes in my mind—me laying out on his bed while he drags the tip of his favorite blade across my pale skin, leaving a trail of my blood as he goes. I would lie still and be his virgin sacrifice.

How do I tell him I would bleed for him right now if he asked? That he doesn’t have to kill me for it?

Lightning strikes as heat pours into my core, a desire so strong and so consuming I feel like I can’t breathe. Sexual attraction, craving, it isn’t something I’ve felt for anyone else. This sort of thirst can only be quenched by him.

I’ve never been touched by anyone because the only person I want isn’t a person at all.

Every town has a scary story. A haunted house that eats souls. A vengeful ghost on the prowl. Ponderosa Springs has many.

But none as frightful as him.

He is a monster. The darkness that holds the moon. A fucking nightmare.

But he is mine.

“Teach me, and I’ll bleed for you.”

I say this as I stroll away from his encroaching figure, step after step, not worried about anything behind me.

“Making new bargains already? I’ve yet to catch you.” His voice is playful, so cruelly playful. “But please, don’t let me stop you from dropping to those knees of yours and begging me to let you live.”

“If I do, will you agree to what I asked? Will you show me how you live with the urge to kill people? How to do it?”

All I need is for him to say yes. I need him to show me how to survive this.

“No.” He laughs, and the sound shakes the ground beneath me as he slides his hands into his pockets. “But I think I’d like to see what those eyes of yours look like on the ground, pleading for mercy, just before I end your life.”

A flash of a blade twinkles in the dark, the blunt end tucked neatly into Thatcher’s large hand. The wind nearly knocks me forward as the trees lessen, opening up.

“Do you hate me that much that you’d rather kill me than help me?” The question comes from a deep sense of insecurity, one that always unearths when I’m around him.

“I don’t hate you, pet.” His voice is ice that slithers down my spine. “That would require me to feel something for you.”

Disappointment settles into my bones. I’m not surprised by his statement. I’ve always known this. But it still stings just the same.

I’ve never seen Thatcher with a woman, but I know I’m not the type he would seek out for pleasure. Why would he? The girl who plays in the mud and collects bugs?