23. Aj
His chest is hard beneath my cheek, his heartbeat thudding fast against my ear. My body is still pulsing with aftershocks, warm and sticky where he came on me.
I should be disgusted.
I should hate him for fucking me while we’re covered in blood and death.
But all I feel is relief.
Relief that he touched me again. Relief that, for a few seconds, nothing else mattered. Not the gunshots. Not the bodies. Not the terror of watching people get slaughtered around me.
I just saw people die. Watched Wolff sever a man’s limbs in cold blood. I just ran for my life while bullets flew and bodies dropped. And the only thing I could do afterwards was throw myself at him like a desperate, broken slut who needs to be fucked to stop feeling.
I’m disgusting.
The second the world tries to kill me, my first instinct is to spread my legs and beg the monster who saved me to make me forget.
Tears burn my eyes as the shame consumes me.
I used to be normal. Now I’m this—a girl who needs a killer’s cock to feel anything other than empty.
I hate myself.
I hate how much I needed him.
I hate that even now, with his cum still warm on my skin, I’m already terrified he’ll pull away and leave me alone with my own thoughts again.
I push up just enough to see his face—and my heart stops.
His skin is drained of color, sweat beading along his forehead despite the cold seeping in from the broken windows. His hand clamps over his side, where blood slips through his fingers… Way too much blood.
“Wolff…you’re bleeding.”
His eyes barely focus on me. I scramble off him, nearly slipping on the blood smeared across the seat.
“Shit—shit! You’ve been shot! Why didn’t you say anything?!”
I rip open the glove box, tearing through whatever’s inside—napkins, old receipts, useless junk.
He winces as he tries to force himself upright. I grab my discarded shirt from the floor and press it hard against his side. Blood soaks through almost instantly, hot and slick against my hands.
“Hold this. Don’t move— Don’t— I’m going to get help.”
His hand shoots out, catching my wrist. His grip is weaker than I’ve ever felt it, and my stomach sinks at what this could mean.
“No. There is no help. I need to get us another car and then—”
“But you’re dying!”
Letting go of my wrist, he shoves the door open, sliding off his seat and stepping into the storm.
“Stay here,” he grunts as he stumbles, catching himself against the trunk.
My blood-soaked hands shake, tears still drying on my face and fresh ones blurring my eyes. I drag my jeans up, pull my jacket on, and start to climb after him when a flash of bright headlights stops me.
“I told you to stay in the damn truck,” he bites out, lips in a firm line.
Standing beside a smaller pickup, snow whips around him, his hand braced on the door like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“Did you just steal this?”
He doesn’t answer. He grabs me and shoves me into the passenger seat and slams the door, then drags himself around the front and drops into the driver’s seat, hand pressing into the wound as the engine roars.
“Where are we going? We don’t have anything— No supplies, no clothes, no—”
He breathes out harshly. “Out of the fucking storm.”
“Let me drive. You’re losing too much blood.”
“No.”
The heater is cranked all the way up, but it doesn’t matter—it’s still so cold, I can see my breath fogging in front of me. I watch his head dip, then jerk back up, then dip again.
“Wolff…” I shift in my seat, closer to him.
Nothing.
“Wolff!”
His eyes finally blink open, and he stares ahead for a second before sucking in a breath that sounds like it hurts.
“There’s…a house.” His voice is slurred as he nods somewhere into the storm. I follow his gaze and see nothing but snow.
“Where? I don’t—”
The wheel jerks in his hands, the truck lurching as the tires grind against ice, catching just enough to pull us off the road. My heart slams into my ribs as the world tilts sideways, and for a second, I think we’re going to roll, but a shape breaks through the storm.
A small wooden cabin, buried in the trees.
Relief hits fast, but it barely has time to settle before he kills the engine, shoves the door open—and drops out of the truck.
“WOLFF!” I scream.
The cold hits like a slap as I jump out after him, my boots slipping in the snow as I reach for him just as he slams into the side of the truck, barely holding himself up.
“Don’t. Fucking. Touch me.”
The words scrape out of him through clenched teeth as he pushes off and staggers toward the cabin. Every step is wrong and uneven.
I follow, my pulse so loud it drowns out the storm, watching him nearly collapse into the door before catching himself with one hand braced against the wood.
“Under the red pot,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Under the”—his breath stutters—“fucking pot.”
Moving quickly, I drop to my knees in the snow, hands shaking so badly I can barely feel them as I dig through the drift until my fingers hit ceramic. I rip the pot free, fumble the key out from underneath it, and rush back—just in time for him to fall into me.
“Shit. Stay with me. Just— Stay with me, okay?” My words trip over each other as I drag him upright. “Don’t— Don’t do this right now, Wolff, not right now—”
I don’t know if I’m talking to him or myself.
The door is barely open before I’m hauling him inside, his body bracing against mine, boots catching on the threshold as I half-carry, half-pull him to the couch. He drops onto it like there’s nothing left holding him up, head falling back, eyes sliding shut.
“No— No, no, no, Wolff.”
Trembling, my hands hover over him uselessly. I don’t know where to touch or what to do. “What do you need? Just tell me what to do—”
“You’re gonna…get it out.” His lips barely move as he speaks.
“What?” I pant.
“The bullet. Take it out.”
All the air leaves my lungs, making me dizzy.
“No…I don’t know how. I’ve never—”
“I can’t.” He forces his eyes open just enough to find mine. “Shoulder’s fucked… head’s fucked—” His voice catches. “Can’t do it.”
I shake my head. This can’t be happening.
“I’m going to kill you if you die. Do you hear me? I swear to god—”
His hand moves slowly as he presses a knife into my palm. “Need…alcohol… needle…” The directions fall apart before they’re even finished.
“Wolff?” My heart starts racing so fast my chest twinges. “Wolff—” I shake him harder this time. His head lolls with no resistance. “Oh my god— No— No, no, no—”
Panic and dread collide inside me all at once as I get moving. “I can’t do this— I can’t—”
Cabinets slap open under my hands, wood cracking against the wall as I search through everything I can find, things hitting the floor around me, breaking, scattering, my fingers grabbing blindly—anything, everything—vodka, a sewing kit, something that looks like it might work—anything that might keep him from dying on that couch.
When I get back, he hasn’t moved.
“Wolff… Wolff— WOLFF!”
His chest barely moves.
“No—no, no, no—”
I tear at his clothes, fingers slipping as I try to get his jacket open. The zipper won’t move, clogged with blood, and I let out a broken sound and just rip, yanking it apart, shoving it off his shoulders.
“Wolff, stay with me. Just…stay with me.”
The shirt underneath is worse, almost black with blood. I grab it and pull, dragging it up his body, and it comes away wet and heavy—
For half a second, I just stare.
Blood smeared across his entire torso. The deep bullet wound gushing blood.
“Oh my god…” Reaching over, I grab the knife.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, even as I press the blade to his skin, my hand shaking so badly, it slips the second it touches him. More blood wells up instantly.
“Fuck—”
“Deeper.” His eyes aren’t even open.
“Wolff, please—” A sob rips out of me as I press harder, the blade slicing into him, and he doesn’t react—doesn’t even flinch. And that’s worse, so much worse than if he screamed.
“Tell me what to do! You have to tell me! Please, I can’t do this! I can’t fucking do this— Please wake up, please don’t leave me here… Don’t you dare leave me here—”
He doesn’t move…
He doesn’t move.
I choke on another sob and grab the tweezers, shoving them into the wound. Metal scrapes against something solid—
The bullet.
“Please—please—” My grip slips. Once. Twice. My vision blurs with unrelenting tears, hands trembling and making it nearly impossible to hold on. The third time, I catch it and pull back firmly. With the bullet in my grip, I take a breath.
But then more blood pours out.
The tweezers clatter somewhere to the floor, and I grab the needle and thread, my fingers clumsy and numb as I push it through his skin, pulling it closed in uneven stitches that don’t look right, don’t feel right—each one dragging more blood up, more red soaking into my hands.
“I hate you. I hate you so fucking much right now,” I choke out.
And I keep going.
I don’t know if it’s right. I don’t know if it’s enough. I just keep going until there’s nothing left to stitch. Or close enough. I don’t know.
I dump the vodka over the wound.
He doesn’t react.
“Wolff…wake up. Please…” My hands press to his chest, feeling the faint, weak beat of his heart. “You’re not allowed to die. You don’t get to die after that, do you hear me? You don’t—”
I stumble back, my hands covered in his blood, my head spinning as everything crashes in all at once.
I take a long pull of the vodka. It burns all the way down, but I barely feel it. I drink again. And again. Chasing something that might dull the edges of everything closing in around me.
I drink until the cages disappear.
Until I don’t see their faces.
Or the blood.
Or him lying here, not waking up.
I keep drinking until the world finally goes quiet. Until there’s nothing left inside me to feel.