Page 96 of The Blood we Crave

Carefully, my hands roll up each of the sleeves of my blood splatter dress shirt, exposing my pale, veiny arms beneath. The air is cool against my neck, anticipation raising my temperature.

The sound of the tent opening adverts my attention. Lyra charges inside, her bruised lip catching the spotlight. The lip I had felt against mine several moments ago. Her mouth tasted of brutality and fear. Quite the opposite of the cherry flavor I’d anticipated.

After pulling her from that bloody tank, I got a real taste of anger. I’d seen it in others, witnessed what it could do, but I’d never felt it for myself. Not like this.

My fury was this quiet, seething predator. As if I could feel the emotion coursing through my veins like sandpaper. Rough against my skin and coiling my spine.

This was my first kill, that was rooted in emotion. Driven by her.

Lyra was my beacon of emotion. All these feelings I’d never once experienced were happening to me because of her.

Being close to her was making me more and more human.

My fingers flex when Rook walks in behind her, his hand curling around Lyra’s arm, tugging backward, his voice loud enough for me to hear.

“Lyra, we need to get you to the hospital. You don’t want to see this. You don’t want to see him like this.”

“I’m not leaving.” She argues, flinching from his grasp, determined to keep moving farther inside the tent and closer to me.

“Please—”

“Lyra.” I call her name interrupting my friend. Her soft eyes turn to me, like my voice is the only sound she hears. I crook a finger, teasing in a come-hither motion. “Come.”

Rook removes his hand, shaking his head with a huff as she moves in my direction. I don’t miss the way she limps a bit, still holding her head high, refusing to show her pain.

She wants to prove they did not break her. That they could never break her. Something swells inside of me, and I think it might be pride. Loyalty not only to me, but to herself.

When she is close enough, I reach forward, grasping her chin in my fingers. I tilt her head from side to side, noting every scratch, every slight inconsistency, every bruise.

She should leave, go get checked out not just physically but mentally. What she experienced would hit her hard once the adrenaline faded out. The trauma response to curl within herself would come back with vengeance and a person can only handle so much before they disappear and never return.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she nods. “And I want to watch. I know you said we were done, but I need to watch. I need to learn, Thatcher, before this thing eats me alive.”

“You didn’t let them see you break.” I mutter, rubbing my thumb across her skin.

I feel her body settle into my touch, melting into my hand. “You told me not to.”

“You did so good, darling phantom.” I whisper, lifting her head up so she’s looking at me. “Do you want your reward? Would you like me to be your teacher tonight?”

Her jade eyes widen, interest peaked and possibly shocked that I’m agreeing so easily.

“No more textbooks?”

A smirk pulls at my mouth as I shake my head. “No textbooks. Just you being a dedicated little student. I would take a few notes, there might be a quiz.”

This secret little arrangement between the two of us is my greatest struggle and hardest thing to release. It’s hard to admit it out loud, but I enjoy Lyra’s watching. The stalking through the shadows with her eyes focused solely on me. I’m the center of her world, and she is my little voyeur.

Relief settles in her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She mutters, just before turning and walking towards a seat in the front row. I look over at Rook, tossing my head towards her, wanting him to stay close in case anything is to happen.

I allow my thoughts to linger on her. On the image of her porcelain, flawless face bloody and bruised, tainted in a way it should have never been. All my anger is singular. It’s focused, trained towards one person and only one.

“My father gifted me a set of throwing knives when I was kid,” I say, lifting a stainless-steel spear point blade. “A way to practice wielding a blade with efficiency. I guess it became a hobby of mine, one I’m quite good at now.”

My long, careful fingers slip one blade from its pouch, twirling it in my hand. The matte black finish is forged from the night. Designed for stealth and made for swift, silent deaths. Their dark color is twin against my leather gloves, my palm weighing the dagger with a quiet stillness that sets an eerie energy into the air.