Chapter Thirty-Three
The whole room seemed to dissolve into chaos.
Shouts of alarm and calls for help chased Michael into the bar, ringing in my ears like distant gunshots. Thomas staggered through the doorway behind him, his own clothes and skin streaked liberally with blood. The stench of it infused the air like perfume and the red staining my vision seemed to sharpen.
KILL...
I was only vaguely aware of Rhys surging off his stool and demanding to know what happened. Thomas offered a terse explanation, the words 'fight', 'new pack' and 'territory' only just managing to pierce the sound of blood rushing in my ears. My fingers tightened automatically, nails digging into fragile skin. A pulse thrummed beneath my touch like an errant butterfly with wings so easily plucked —
Mia's hands clawed uselessly at my wrist. "Michael," she managed to croak, her voice hoarse, "M-Michael—" But it wasn't until a hand grasped my arm and yanked me away from her forcefully that I realised she hadn't been calling for help — she'd been warning me.
For the first time since the door had burst open, it started to dawn on me exactly what position I'd been caught in. It was like I'd been doused with a bucket of icy cold water; the bloodlust drained from my system, the metallic flavour of fear lacing my tongue as I stared at Mia in horror. What have I done?
She was struggling to breathe, blood oozing from the thin grooves my nails had etched into her skin, and her eyes were wide with panic as she stared at Michael. "Michael, don't—"
He cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand, ignoring her. His focus was reserved entirely for me; I could feel the weight of it on me like a physical force, the full span of his fury rolling off him in tangible waves. Panic clogged my throat, making my heart race and my palms sweat.
It was an accident... I tried to voice the words, to force them off the tip of my tongue. I didn't mean to hurt her...The lie tasted sour on my lips, dissolving before I could push it out. The fact that I even felt the need to lie, to explain myself, pissed me off and my anger started to outweigh my panic.
It was her own damn fault. I tried to stop her. She put herself in that position...
I tried to wrench my arm from his grasp but his fingers just tightened, his grip punishingly strong.
"Michael," Mia tried again. "It's not what you —"
"Shut up," he growled at her, his voice icier than I'd ever heard it. I might have been on the receiving end of his frigid temper more than a handful of times but if the flicker of alarm in her eyes was any indication, he'd never once spoken to Mia like that. Her voice faltered, a stunned expression crossing her face. "Go to Thomas —"
She bolted the second he gave the order with little more than a regretful glance in my direction. The fact that she didn't even try to stand up to him tipped my anger up another notch, making me bristle, and I almost wished I'd finished what I had started before Michael barged in but before my thoughts could take a nosedive in that direction, he was shoving me forward, propelling me toward the back stairwell.
"Move," he ground out when I tried to resist.
My eyes flickered in Theo's direction. He had moved into the middle of the bar, his face pale as he watched Rhys and Mia fuss over Thomas as he was lowered to the floor. One wrong move and I knew Theo would be on the floor next to him, strapped into a body bag. The thought made my stomach lurch, a low simmer fire of anger burning in my gut.
Would Michael have him grabbed next? Without giving me a chance to explain...?
I unclenched my jaw. "I didn't —"
"Stop," he warned. There was an edge to the cold fury that coated his voice, something dangerous enough to make my mouth snap shut and my heartbeat kick into overdrive. Flashes of him driving the nozzle of the gun into my spine darted through my head as he pushed me out into the hallway and my muscles tensed in anticipation of an attack, my natural instincts kicking in — but he just continued to shove me toward the stairs with a gruff, "Up."
We climbed the stairwell swiftly but when we finally reached our floor, I felt his grip on my arm start to slacken a little. It should have been the perfect opening. I could already visualise my next move, the easiest way to wrest myself away from him and gain the upper hand — not enough to hurt him, but enough to force him to listen. To accept my point of view. But before I could move, other details began to penetrate: like his now audible breathing, harsh puffs of warm air brushing the back of my neck as he walked behind me, and how he'd crowded me while we came around the corner, almost as if he was trying to lean on me without realising.
An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.
Michael's free hand grazed mine as we approached the door, pushing his keycard into my palm. I took it from him without a word, a small part of me almost hoping that he'd try to attack me the second we stepped inside. But when the door swung open, all he did was nudge my back in the direction of the bathroom as he kicked the door shut behind him.
A trill of alarm sounded in the back of my head. Something isn't right...
"Michael —" I started.
He ignored me, his grip on my arm tightening in warning as he forced me into the en suite. The smell of blood grew stronger in there, permeating the tiny room until I could practically taste it on the tip of my tongue. What little control I had over the bloodlust began to crack and I curled my fists against the onslaught, forcing myself to concentrate, to wonder why it was so overwhelming, why it smelled so fresh...
I heard the snap of the lock as Michael shut the door behind us.
He shoved me over to the toilet, slamming the lid down and forcing me onto the seat with a heavy hand — and that was when my patience finally snapped. I shrugged him off, my eyes following him warily as he moved to the shower unit. "If the plan is to waterboard me..."
He reached into the shower, his hands fumbling with the dials until water spilled from the shower head, and it was only then I really noticed how much blood there was. It smeared the dials, dribbling down the tiles he'd only just replaced after I destroyed them, staining the bowl red. It coated his jeans, slowly seeping down to his knees and gluing the fabric to his thighs, and drenched the belt at his waist.
My heartbeat racing, I raked my eyes over him, mentally taking stock of all I could see: blood, blood, more blood...
His blood?
"My jacket," he rasped.
My head snapped up in alarm as he leaned over the sink, bracing one hand against the edge. The coldness had seeped from his voice and there was no mistaking the emotion I could hear wrapped around each syllable: pain.
A strange, faintly nauseating feeling took root in the pit of my stomach.
Still, it wasn't until he reached for the sleeve of his jacket with trembling fingers that it really hit me that he hadn't dragged me up here to instigate some kind of punishment or torture. He was in a serious amount of pain.
The realisation galvanised me. It didn't matter how many times I told myself that it wasn't my problem; there was still a tiny part of me that needed to know. I surged up from the toilet and caught the edges of his jacket, tugging it over his shoulders. His movements were stiff as he pulled his arms from the sleeves and the second I peeled the material away from his t-shirt, I saw why: the entire back was soaked through with blood.
His blood.
I gasped.
Right then, it was difficult to cling to my resentment. I was supposed to hate him. He'd tried to kill me, he'd tried everything in his power to run me out of London, away from the only home I'd ever known, and he'd continuously backed me into corners only to watch me fight like hell to escape them without a single shred of mercy. But even as I forced myself to remember every last misdeed, the flavour of my anger began to change, a different kind of fire igniting in my veins.
I reached for the back of his shirt without invitation, my nails shredding through the already-torn material like paper through water. He grimaced as I peeled it away from his skin and revealed the extent of his injuries. There were shards of what looked like glass embedded along his spine, over his left shoulder and along the side of his torso and left arm. It was almost as if he'd fallen through a window or fallen against something sharp — except for the flecks of something shinier and more potent, deliberately infused within the fragments: silver.
It hit me a heartbeat later that I'd seen something like this before — that I'd designed something like this before.
Bile rose in my throat and my stomach started to churn. My voice was rough as I asked, "Bomb?"
He was silent for so long I thought he wasn't going to answer me. But when I started to pluck the thickest of the shards from his back with the tips of my fingers, ignoring the way my skin tingled and burned, he murmured, "A shitty attempt at one."
I pursed my lips at the lack of concern in his voice, anger cutting through my horror. "One of yours?" I bit out, tugging a little too hard on another shard.
Michael hissed and flinched in pain. "Theirs."
I gritted my teeth, determined to keep from asking, "Whose?" It's not my business, it's not my pack, it's not my concern... More useless anger continued to crawl up the back of my throat and I struggled to decipher what was pissing me off more — the fact that he'd thrown himself in that kind of danger or the fact that I cared? Or the fact that he didn't care?
The fact that the only decent guard I'd seen around here was Thomas — that Thomas was the only protection he had against enemies capable of building bombs — or the fact that it bothered me?
This is the pack you're expecting to protect Theo...
I yanked on another fragment, accidentally tearing a little of his skin in the process. Fresh blood oozed instantly from the cut. He growled low under his breath and caught my wrist as I disposed of the shard, squeezing gently on my pulse point in warning. When his eyes met mine through the dirty mirror over the sink, his gaze was glazed over with pain and just a hint of something dark and threatening.
I'd never been so aware of my heart beating hard against my ribcage.
"Easy," he warned.
"If you wanted gentle," I said mulishly, "you should have dragged Mia up here."
I picked at another shard, though this time I made an effort to be softer, dislodging it slowly. I tossed it into the sink and glanced back at the mirror to find him squeezing his eyes shut against the pain, his face twisted into a grimace. It was a far cry from the cold, implacable stranger I'd come to expect over the past few weeks and for a heartbeat, I was wrenched back in time, the years between us dissolving until I was fifteen years old again and he'd come stumbling into the clubhouse after another vicious bout with one of the other boys.
He exhaled slowly. "I can't... I can't let them see me like this."
I frowned and focused on the smaller fragments, pinching them out with the tips of my fingers. I could hear echoes of my own voice dancing around in my head, taunting and cruel, laced with mockery. "Weak. You're so weak..." My frown deepened to a scowl. I shouldn't have been there — I shouldn't have been the one cleaning his wounds and witnessing his pain. We weren't kids anymore. We weren't even friends anymore.
He shouldn't have let me see him like this.
Unless this was meant to be my punishment: forcing me into this position, forcing me to help him because he couldn't bring himself to let anyone else near. To see him weak. Forcing me to relive moments in our childhood that should have stayed buried.
Forcing me to care.
Resentment flared in my gut as I collected the last few shards, each one tossed into the sink with a quiet clink as it hit the others. My fingertips were starting to swell, burning and itching with the prolonged contact to silver. There were tiny pieces embedded under my nails, heightening the sensation, like a million tiny pinpricks over and over again.
"What happened with Mia —"
"I know," he cut in, his voice rough with pain. "Training."
The assured note in his voice struck like a dissonant chord and I cringed away from it. Any explanations I'd intended to give died on the tip of my tongue, the truth tumbling out of my mouth instead like a challenge. "I wanted to hurt her."
His eyes tangled with mine in the mirror, the pain fading as they became guarded. Wary.
"I wanted to hurt you."
My fingers trembled as I reached for the last piece of glass embedded in his shoulder. My stomach clenched as my admission hung in the air between us, my body growing more tense with each passing second he remained silent. I wanted to snatch the words back.
They were... too much.
Too honest.
I pinched my nails around the last piece but it refused to budge, inching deeper into his skin. The flesh around it was slightly inflamed and sore looking, the cut starting to pucker. Without really thinking it through, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his bloody skin and sucked.
Michael inhaled sharply.
I knew the instant my mouth touched his skin that I'd made a mistake. My heart started to hammer against my ribcage. My stomach clenched and my body suddenly felt hot all over, like I was starting to go into heat all over again. The shard burned my tongue as it tipped into my mouth, chased by the salty, metallic taste of his blood, and all I could think about was him: hurting him, hating him, wanting him.
My head spun.
It was too much: the heat, the desire, the tide of bloodlust that spread through me in a dizzying rush.
Michael twisted to face me. Amber eyes stared into mine, burning with an intensity I'd never seen from him before, as he caught my chin and forced my mouth open with his thumb. He swept the shard from my mouth and it skittered to the floor a heartbeat before his lips crashing down on mine.
My whole body ignited.
I was vaguely aware of him yanking at my clothes as he devoured my mouth, his tongue lashing against mine with painful fervour and his teeth nipping at my lips until he'd drawn blood. I dug my fingers into his back, re-opening cuts that had only just closed, clawing at him with a desperation I barely understood, needing to hurt him as much as I needed to just... fuck him.
I took everything out on him: my frustration, my anger, my bloodlust. I cut and bit and used him while he managed to manoeuvre us into the shower, and then he was lifting me up into his arms, my legs were winding around his waist and he was pushing into me with a force that stole my breath away.
I hated him for this most of all.
I hated him for turning me into this feral, deranged animal who craved him almost as much as she craved blood. Who struggled with the desperate need to submit, the urge making her blood sing with a latent instinct it was almost impossible to resist.
I hated him for making me forget: forget why I couldn't, why I could never, why I shouldn't.
But most of all I hated him for making me care.
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Thankies for reading! In the home stretch now (yay). Approx 10 chaps to go