Chapter 10
EVERLEIGH
I finally arrive at home after forcing Viktor to drive Mira and me around the rest of the day while we shopped.
The first thing I do when I step into my bedroom is call Dante.
Of course, with my luck, it goes straight to voicemail.
When the beep sounds, I leave him a not-so-happy message. “Call me back, you twat-waffle. I have a bone to pick with you.”
I hang up immediately and toss my phone onto the bed, watching it bounce once against the comforter before hitting my pillow.
I change into a pair of sweats and a big t-shirt, my usual attire, before wandering to the kitchen.
The house is oddly silent tonight.
No muffled voices coming from my father’s office.
No Viktor judging my movie choices.
And no Dante to argue with.
The best part of being alone right now is that I can do whatever I want.
I make my way into the kitchen and start digging through the cabinets until I find a few snacks. I grab a bag of Salsitas chips, a Tony’s honey almond chocolate bar, and a Calypso Blue Lemonade for my drink.
If Dante plans on ignoring my calls, then I’m not sitting around bored waiting for him to decide when I’m worth five minutes of his time.
Snacks in hand, I head back to my room.
The moment I step inside, I spot my favorite book sitting on my nightstand and decide to read for a bit tonight while I snack.
I grab my copy of Tender is the Flesh and climb onto the bed, settling against the pillows. The spine bends easily when I open it, the pages already worn from the number of times I’ve reread it.
I run my thumb along the edge of the paper for a second before starting where I left off.
Something about this book always pulls me in.
The world in it is completely disturbing, but the way it’s written makes it impossible to put down.
The plot twist really had me questioning my entire life.
The ending had me in my own mind for days.
A few chapters go by before I even realize how much time has passed.
Every now and then, I reach over for a handful of chips or a piece of chocolate, barely looking away from the page while I eat.
Eventually my eyes drift back to my phone sitting beside me.
No missed calls and no new messages.
I sigh loudly and drop the book onto the blanket beside me. “Seriously?”
If Dante thinks he’s just going to ignore me all night, then he’s insane.
I grab the remote from the nightstand and flip the TV on, scrolling through the apps until I land on Netflix.
Once I click on the show Hannibal, the familiar dark music fills the room as the episode starts.
This show is top tier. The relationship between Hannibal and Graham does something to my insides.
I watch for a while, half-paying attention while scrolling on my phone every few minutes just to make sure I didn’t miss a call or text.
One episode turns into another and my snacks slowly start to disappear.
Eventually, I stretch my arms above my head and let out a quiet groan before pushing myself off of the bed.
“Fine,” I mumble to my phone. “Be that way.”
I grab a clean set of clothes, since chocolate somehow melted onto mine and head into the bathroom. The shower turns and patters onto the tile, steam quickly filling the small space as the water warms up.
The heat feels good after the long day of shopping.
By the time I finish washing my hair and rinsing everything off, my fingers are pruned and the bathroom mirror is fogged over completely.
I wrap a towel around myself and another around my hair before stepping back into my bedroom.
The TV is still playing quietly in the background from where I left Hannibal running. I didn’t mind missing some things since this is my thousandth rewatch.
After drying off and pulling on my clothes, I go back to sit on the bed, but right before I do, a loud sound echoes in the foyer.
I’m pretty sure the loud noise was the front door slamming closed.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring toward my bedroom door.
My father is out of town and Viktor definitely would have texted if he was coming back by.
With light footsteps, I move over to the door and tilt my head just enough to see around it.
If it weren’t for the kitchen light spilling into the foyer, I probably wouldn’t have been able to see anything.
But that one ray of light catches him perfectly.
Dante is slumped against the front door, barely holding himself upright as he sits on the floor.
For a moment, my brain doesn’t process what I’m looking at. But then I squint slightly and that’s when I see the blood.
It’s soaking through the side of his shirt, trailing down his ribs and dripping onto the marble tile. One hand is clamped against the wound like he’s trying to keep pressure, but the blood continuously slips between his fingers.
My stomach drops. “Dante-”
The word barely makes it out of my mouth before I’m rushing over to him.
I drop to my knees in front of his body.
Up close it looks even worse. His usual tan skin is pale and he’s breathing rapidly.
“What do I need to do?” I question, my tone coming out panicked.
More blood spills on the floor, running down the tile and straight toward my knees.
His eyes then lift to meet mine. He’s struggling to keep them open.
“Dante?” I lean in closer, but my gaze drops down to the blood soaking through the side of his shirt.
It’s way too much blood. Way too fucking much.
His hand presses harder against it. But he swallows before speaking, “Get..” His voice is low.
I lean closer. “Get what?”
“Your.. f- father’s first aid k- kit.” The words come out slightly unintelligible.
His head tips back against the wall and his eyes flutter like he’s still fighting to the best of his ability to keep them open.
“You’re going to have to.. stitch..”
The last word trails off, barely leaving his mouth as his body goes limp. He then falls over, his weight hitting the floor with a heavy thud. “Dante!”
I watch the rise and fall of his chest.
He’s still breathing.
“Shit.. shit,” I mutter under my breath, my hands steadily shaking as I look back at the blood spreading across the floor.
Tears form in my eyes but I clear my throat as I realize what he’s asking of me.
That wound is absolutely going to need stitches.
The only problem is.. I’ve never done them before.
For half a second, I just stare at him while my brain feels like it’s short-circuiting.
Blood is still flowing out from under his side, pooling across the marble like someone knocked over a glass of red wine.
Except this isn’t wine and Dante isn’t moving.
“Okay,” I whisper to absolutely no one. “You can do this.” I shove myself to my feet so fast I almost slip in the blood.
So much for the shower I just took.
He mentioned the first aid kit. It has to be in my father’s office. I’ve never seen one anywhere else in the house so that’s the only place I can think of.
I sprint down the hall, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it wants to explode out of my chest.
My hands are trembling as I shove the office door open, flip on the light and rush straight to the armoire located directly behind his desk.
I rip the doors open, my eyes scattering across everything in it before they finally land on a red and white container.
I grab it and jolt back down the hall to where I left him.
He’s still unconscious and still very much bleeding.
I’m not much of a believer in religion, but I have the nerve to look up toward the ceiling and scream out, Why me?
I drop to my knees beside him again, the metal box clattering as I flip the lid up.
I see multiple things like a bottle of vodka, which is a weird choice for an antiseptic.
Thread. Needles. Gauze.
And some hand sized bandages.
I bite my lip trying to keep myself steady. I don’t want to think about the fact that I have to push a needle into someone’s skin constantly.
Just because I read a lot of gore-heavy books doesn’t mean I want to see it in real life. Fiction’s one thing, reality’s another.
I slowly move his shirt out of the way to see if it’s a bullet wound I’m dealing with or a stabbing.
“Fuck.”
It’s not just some small cut. He has a stab wound that measures about four inches long. Whoever stabbed him made sure it hurt.
Once I move the shirt out of the way, more blood seeps out. I quickly grab a wad of gauze and press it hard against the wound.
His body jerks slightly and he groans in pain even though he’s unconscious.
“Sorry,” I repeat quickly. “I’m sorry.”
My hands are shaking so badly that the gauze trembles in my grip.
Okay, what would a nurse do in this situation? I run through all of the options in my head before grabbing the bottle of vodka. I pop open the lid immediately and pour it directly onto the gash that sits right below his ribcage.
The second the liquid hits the broken skin, Dante’s entire body flinches.
His back arches slightly off the floor and he swings one of his fists, almost catching me in the face.
“Dante, I need you to be still,” I whisper frantically. “I’m literally trying to save your life.”
Blood mixes with the alcohol and runs down his side in red and clear streams. I wipe it away with more gauze as fast as I can, trying to actually see what I’m working with.
My brain is running in a thousand directions.
What if I do this wrong?
What if I make it worse?
What if he bleeds out right here on the foyer floor and my father comes home to find me sitting next to a corpse?
My hands start shaking harder.
“Nope,” I mutter to myself. “Chill out. Just do it, get it over with.”
I grab the suture kit and rip the packaging open.
The needle is curved and the thread is thin.
And suddenly my brain decides this is the perfect moment to remember that I’ve literally only seen this done in movies. But I try not to let the nerves get to me.
I hesitate as I lean forward, positioning the needle over the gaping wound.
My stomach churns and I want to glance away, but in order to do this, I can’t.
I inhale a shaky breath and exhale a steadier one, pushing the needle through his skin.
It slides through with a sickening resistance before popping out on the other side.
Goosebumps spread across my arms as I guide the needle into the skin on the opposite side, pulling the thread tight.
This is the bloodiest situation I’ve ever been in. “Oh my god.” I mumble under my breath.
Blood smears across my fingers as I keep going, dragging the thread through the torn skin and tying it off before starting the next one.
The blood slows down slightly as each stitch pulls the torn skin closer together.
My hands are wet with his blood.
My knees are soaked in it too.
I haven’t even checked if he still has a pulse since I started this.
“Please don’t be dead,” I whisper under my breath as I work the last stitch through the skin.
“Because if you die after all the hard work I just put in, I’m going to be really pissed.”