𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄

ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛʏ - ꜰɪᴠᴇ

"𝗜'm sorry," she sobbed, "I'm so sorry."

Blake kept her voice lower than a whisper as she spoke to herself, collapsing to the ground at the same time. She knew she needed to keep going—the dead body belonging to the man before her had tracked a trail of blood from the kitchen to where she was now, in front of Mason's door. She knew it was only a matter of time before they realized the pregnant one managed to kill someone and slither away.

Tears continued to roll down her cheeks in forms of hefty rivers the longer she looked at the man's lifeless, cold, blue eyes. Every time her hand patted a new area on his body, searching for weapons to defend herself, the more she acknowledged that she had become something she never intended to be. While she acted out of self-defense, the blood still stained her hands like hair dye.

"God," she continued to whimper, "Taryn, where are you when I need you?"

It was one thing to live amongst killers—she respected that those actions came with the title, and she never judged them, but there was a reason why she, personally, never became a full-fledged member when she started dating Mason, unlike Taryn with Isaac.

She couldn't handle it—she couldn't stomach it.

And now years later, pregnant and fat and bloated, she sat sitting in the corridor she practically grew up in, sobbing her eyes out for a man she didn't even know purely because she was the one that ended his life. After seeing the act over and over again whether it was displayed on clothing in the shape of blood or defense wounds on her friends—she never got used to it.

She had to force the bile down.

"Aye, amigo!" one of the bad guys shouted from the end of the hallway.

Blake gasped loudly, slapping a hand to her mouth the second she realized what she was doing. This house was no longer a place of solace, but rather an area of attack. Directly two hours after the gang  packed up and headed toward the enemy base, Emiko, Caycee, and herself had finished preparing their night of fun when the electricity went out.

The storm hadn't started by then to cover up their tracks; it was clear they had become targets.

Standing in those same forced shadows now was the man that had just called out to his friend—the one dead and in her arms. His posture was broad and wide, so much so, that she could imagine each of his shoulder blades touching both sides of the walls.

Blake released the breath she'd been holding as he took a step forward. Luckily for her, the darkness hid her well, protected her; his thoughts pushed him toward the living room instead of down the hallway that he and his team had not touched since they invaded.

"Adonde se fue este imbécil?"  (where'd the stupid motherfucker go?) the man mumbled.

Lowering her hands from her lips as he disappeared around the corner, she said a silent prayer. If the dead man before her now had not been so disingenuously nice to her earlier, she might still be trapped on the couch. But since he was moving in that direction now, her window of opportunity just switched from indefinite to a select few minutes.