Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
I scrubbed my face until it turned red. Even my shoulders, my stomach, my dick. I’ve been scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing everywhere he put his filthy fucking fingers—even through my clothes. And when that didn’t work, I turned to my knife. Another knife, not the one he shot the fuck out of my hand.
This isn’t working either, it seems, and I need to stop before I damage my nerves and can’t use my hand properly.
I need it to kill that motherfucker.
Throwing the knife down, I step out of the shower, my blood mixing with the water and forming rivulets down my fingers before it drips to the floor.
Like a constant.
Drip. Red.
Drip. Red.
Drip. Red.
I like the view of red on the white tiles. The irregular shape of the blood droplets. The way they get darker with each drop.
It’s calming, in a sense, which makes it a risk of addiction. If I get used to this sight, I’ll want to see it again and again, in more significant quantities. Like a drug.
But I don’t do addictions.
And I stopped one from becoming dangerous over six years ago.
So I’m stable now. I should be stable.
I drag my attention from the blood and stand in front of the mirror. The antifog surface shows a crystal image of water dripping down my hair, onto my impassive face, my abs, and to my half-erect cock.
It’s been in this state since that piece of shit left me with blue balls, and I refuse to touch myself.
This isn’t arousal due to anything he’s done, and it’s only a mere miscalculation in my fucking system.
I swear to fuck, if my dick keeps being a hindrance, I’ll castrate it.
That internal threat doesn’t get the little bitch to get the fuck down.
With a sigh, I throw a towel over my head, wrap another around my waist, and bandage my hand. The blood still soaks through, forming a blotch.
Maybe I need stitches.
What a fucking mess.
I pause after I walk into my room while toweling my hair.
“What are you doing here?” I ask in a detached tone, not bothering to feign annoyance at seeing my brother sitting on my bed.
He’s the last person I want to engage with right now.
Killian’s arms are speared behind his head as he leans against the headboard, his legs crossed at his ankles as he watches me.
He’s about two and a half years younger than me but is a fourth-year med student because he loves showing off his intellect and made sure to skip ahead. I did skip one year, but that was all.
Standing out like he does is the furthest thing from what I want.
A gleam shines in his dark-blue eyes. We barely look like siblings. He has Mom’s eyes and Dad’s dark hair. I have Mom’s blonde hair and Dad’s green eyes.
And he hates those eyes—Dad’s and mine, I mean. Something about not being Dad’s favorite.
Well, he should’ve never stood out.
“I’m just checking in on you.” He grins. “Saw blood on your car’s steering wheel.”
So I might have started the knife thing when I got into the car, using the spare one in the glove box. Now, I feel bad for Medusa—my car. I need to give her a thorough clean and apologize for putting her through this.
I raise a brow. “And why were you looking at my car?”
“So I could tamper with your brakes as I previously promised.”
“I see.” I walk toward my desk, not in the mood to engage in our usual conversation where he threatens to eliminate me and I pretend to be scared or that he creeps me the fuck out.
He doesn’t. He’s me in a different, less glamorous font.
I just don’t like to be lumped in the same box as him.
At this time, I’d usually be studying or putting on the show that I’m doing so, but now I need Kill to leave so I can sleep.
“You see?” He jumps up from the bed and stalks toward me with a slight narrowing in his eyes. “That’s all you have to say?”
Now, there’s good news and bad news about Kill’s presence.
Good news: my hard-on is gone. Thank fuck.
Bad news: he’s suspicious of me.
“I just had a bad night.” An understatement. “Can I get a rain check on your shenanigans?”
“Bad night in what sense?” He motions at my bandaged hand. “Who did that?”
A dead man walking. “It was an accident.”
“Who was responsible for the accident?”
“Why are you asking?” I let my lips form in a smile. “You’ll avenge my honor?”
“Our honor. Can’t have you disgracing my last name.”
I throw my hair towel at him. “Just stop being a red flag and we won’t have that problem.”
“You’re bleeding again.” He shakes the bloodstained towel in his hand. “You probably need stitches. I’ll take a look if you beg me to.”
“No, thanks.”
He walks out of the room, but before I can release a breath, he comes back in with his medical kit.