Page 193 of Buried in Blood
The word tastes foreign, like something stolen, like something that doesn’t belong to people like her. I stare at the crisp white sheets in her lap, pen trembling between my fingers. My wound still aches, stitched tight beneath my rib cage, a brutal reminder that freedom doesn’t come without pain.
Reese stands in the corner, arms folded over his chest, eyes on her like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Like I’m some kind of dream he’s still scared to believe in.
I sign.
One stroke at a time.
And just like that, I’m no longer a patient. I’m just a woman who lived through Hell and walked out on the other side.
Barely.
The nurse smiles. “Wheelchairs are mandatory, hospital policy.”
I glare. “I can walk.”
Reese moves forward before the nurse can argue. “I’ve got her.”
With one arm carefully placed beneath my knees and the other around my back, he lifts me like I weigh nothing at all. My body protests, the pain sharp and instant; but I bite it back, burying my face in his chest.
“I could’ve walked,” I mutter against his shirt.
“You’ve been bleeding for a week,” he says. “You don’t get to argue with me yet.”
I sigh and let myself be carried.
The sun is too bright.
Everything is too loud.
Cars honk in the distance. Someone’s playing music from a cracked speaker. The world has moved on—like it didn’t end three times in the last month. Like people didn’t die. Like Damien didn’t shatter everything and nearly take me with him.
Reese opens the passenger door of his black SUV and eases me into the seat with a care that makes my chest ache. He buckles me in like I might break in his hands.
Maybe I already have.
He walks around to the driver’s side, slides in, and starts the engine. The radio’s off. The silence is thicker than blood.
We drive for twenty minutes before I speak.
“You cleaned the truck.”
He glances at me, brow furrowing.
“I remember it being dirtier,” I explain.
Reese exhales. “I washed it the day I thought I lost you.”
I turn to look out the window. My throat burns.
“I didn’t know if I was washing off blood or hope.”
My fingers curl around the seat belt. I don’t know how to answer that. So I don’t. I just let the silence stretch.
His house is on the edge of town. A single-story ranch with tall hedgesand a wraparound porch. The gravel drive crunches beneath the tires as he pulls in. It’s the kind of place I never thought Reese would live.
Too quiet.
Too… permanent.
