Page 81 of Violent Possession

“Griffin,” he says. His voice floats, bringing me back. I can’t feel one leg. I try to peek why.

Too much blood. Oh—I remember—a bullet in my thigh. That must be it.

“Look at me,” he says. I feel his hand hold my face, preventing my head from lolling on its own. I look at him. The only thing without red stains here. “Where were you hit?”

I can barely move and still gather strength to touch his face too. Just to make sure he’s real. To stain the eagerness of his skin crimson.

I lean forward. Honestly, I have no idea why. I just kiss him.

He doesn’t even let me taste him. He touches my chest and pushes me back against the column.

“Kissing me won’t stop your bleeding,” he says, and his breath brushes my skin.

I watch him take off his overcoat. Expensive overcoat. Must be cashmere.

I can still smile. More or less.

“Why are you taking off your clothes for me...?” I say. I must really be delirious. My voice is hoarse, strained.

He ignores me. He shoves his hands into the silk lining of the overcoat, bites and pulls. Rips off a piece with a yank. He dropped the gun at some point.

“...What are you...”

He rests a hand on my good shoulder. “This is going to hurt.”

Before I realize it, his fingers are where the knife went in. I hadn’t noticed how ugly the cut was.

I think he’s just going to apply pressure, but no. The warning of pain is useless.

He shoves a finger inside the cut. I feel him press in a sudden burst—a wave that radiates to every nerve in my body, because that fucking stab wound alone can’t handle it. My vision darkens again. I hear my own voice; a loud grunt that only escapes without my permission. And he pushes the torn fabric inside. Once, twice.

There’s no more warehouse, no more bodies, no more anything. I only feel an agony that travels through my chest, ignites my throat, and explodes behind my eyes.

I look for something to grab. Anything. I squeeze his shoulder with all the strength I have left. I try to push him away.

He keeps pushing the fabric deeper into my flesh.

“Look at me, Griffin,” his voice commands, low and firm. “Don’t black out.”

I obey him. And what I see there anchors me. He’s concentrated, focused.

And as quickly as it started, the pressure stops.

The sharp, cutting pain transforms into a dull, throbbing ache.

Alexei keeps one hand over the wad of fabric sticking out of the stab wound, and with the other, he picks up the overcoatagain. He bites it, tears off a larger piece—a long strip. He wraps it around my arm. He ties a knot over the wad of fabric, tightening it hard.

“Fuck,” I curse unintentionally. “Damn it...”

My whole arm throbs in agony, a deep, dull pain radiating from the hole he just stuffed with hisrich man’s overcoat.

He doesn’t give me time to catch my breath. His hand, now entirely stained with my blood, slides down my leg. My pants are torn where the bullet entered.

I flinch by instinct. The same agony as before—he’s going to shove his fingers inside the hole. My entire body tenses.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he tears what’s left of the silk lining of the overcoat and creates a thick pad. He positions it over the wound on my thigh and leans over me, using his own body weight to apply firm pressure.