Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 107652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Do what now?”
“Those tubes right there. Insert them into the ports. The program is already prepared. One bag for each wrist.”
My stomach turned.
I looked at the coils of tubing and the empty IV bags stamped with barcodes.
Horror filled me as I finally understood what this place was. Why it reminded me of a doctor’s surgery. Why the reek of antiseptic tried to hurtle me into memories of all those tests I’d subjected myself to after watching my parents turn to bone-soup in front of me.
“You can’t be serious.” I shook my head. “You...you expect me to bleed you?”
He showed no compassion whatsoever. “If I don’t, they’ll come and do it for me while I’m unconscious.” He smiled, thin and ruthless. “I can’t avoid it, and I prefer being awake instead of drugged. Therefore, I don’t have a choice.” His eyes narrowed. “Now do as you’re told and attach the drains.”
He might not want to pass out, but I certainly did.
Whisper nudged me as if commiserating with my inadequacies.
“Ten minutes and then you’re free,” he whispered. “You can leave the moment it’s done.”
My heart pounded as I met his stare.
No way.
There was no way I could do this—
“You can.” His jaw clenched as if fighting his own revulsion of this place, this room, this request. “Do it so we both can leave.”
Just like last night with him on top of me, sharing his pain, seeing how much he hurt, I fell into him. I fell into everything he refused to say and all the secrets trapping him.
And somehow, it was no longer about me.
Eleven years he’d bled himself.
How many years before that had they done it for him?
How rough were they? How much had he screamed when he was younger as they buckled him onto that chair?
My stomach turned over for an entirely different reason. Anger on his behalf. Injustice for all he’d endured. The rush of rage and pity pushed back my dizziness, and I reached for the tubing.
I didn’t say a word as I eyed up the metal ports. My hands shook as I gripped the metal connection on the tube, wincing as it clinked against his silver cuff. My heart raced as I shoved hair over my shoulder and bent over his wrist.
With my teeth clenched and mind carefully devoid of what I was doing, I fiddled with the mechanism, trying to lock the two together.
He exhaled with impatience but didn’t rush me.
Finally, with a twist, the port connected.
Instantly, a rush of bright red blood shot out of him, siphoning down the tube and pooling into the bag.
My eyes snapped closed.
I swayed.
“If you pass out, I can’t guarantee you’ll wake up again,” he murmured.
Images of him as a boy having this done to him. Echoes of what Laura had told me about his parents and their deaths and how his board treated him like an animal.
A rush of violent possessiveness toward him shut down my stress and I attached the other port.
If doing this meant they stayed the hell away from him, so be it.
I would do whatever he asked of me if it meant he stopped hurting so much.
Once both tubes sucked thick, hot blood, I backed up and balled my hands. “W-What else do I have to do?” My voice wavered a little, but I hadn’t passed out so I took that as a win.
His eyebrows rose in surprise.
He looked as if he wanted to ask why I’d suddenly become brave but the way he watched me said he knew. He correctly read my rage on his behalf and just nodded, accepting that there was something going on between us and neither of us had the guts to acknowledge it.
Clearing his throat, he said, “Just wait. The newer bags are already laced with anticoagulants. I used to have to inject it myself, but they’ve made it more efficient in recent years.”
“That’s...nice of them?”
He chuckled.
I blinked.
A new, savage kind of loyalty rose from nothing, tangling tight around my heart. Loyalty toward him.
The bags continued to fill with dark, thick, horribly warm blood. The more they swelled, the whiter he became until his lips went a horrifying shade of blue.
Finally, when I thought my heart would hammer its way through my ribs to run, something hissed, clicked, and the computer monitor flashed with a pop-up box.
“Unhook the ports,” he commanded, his tone quieter than usual.
My hands trembled all over again as I obeyed.
“Toss the tubes into the biohazard bin.” Leaning forward, Lucien gathered his shirt and slowly shrugged it on. The urge to help him became unbearable but I locked down every emotion and did as he requested. The red stained tubes vanished into the bin, and I cringed as my eyes fell on the two bags of his blood.
He smirked, his arrogance showing even now. “Click the ‘yes’ button and attach the label that the printer will spit out.”