Page 85 of I’m The Worst

I should be disgusted.

I should hate him for fucking me while we’re covered in blood and death.

But all I feel is relief.

Relief that he touched me again. Relief that, for a few seconds, nothing else mattered. Not the gunshots. Not the bodies. Not the terror of watching people get slaughtered around me.

I just saw people die. Watched Wolff sever a man’s limbs in cold blood. I just ran for my life while bullets flew and bodies dropped. And the only thing I could do afterwards was throw myself at him like a desperate, broken slut who needs to be fucked to stop feeling.

I’m disgusting.

The second the world tries to kill me, my first instinct is to spread my legs and beg the monster who saved me to make me forget.

Tears burn my eyes as the shame consumes me.

I used to be normal. Now I’m this—a girl who needs a killer’s cock to feel anything other than empty.

I hate myself.

I hate how much I needed him.

I hate that even now, with his cum still warm on my skin, I’m already terrified he’ll pull away and leave me alone with my own thoughts again.

I push up just enough to see his face—and my heart stops.

His skin is drained of color, sweat beading along his forehead despite the cold seeping in from the broken windows. His hand clamps over his side, where blood slips through his fingers… Way too much blood.

“Wolff…you’re bleeding.”

His eyes barely focus on me. I scramble off him, nearly slipping on the blood smeared across the seat.

“Shit—shit! You’ve been shot! Why didn’t you say anything?!”

I rip open the glove box, tearing through whatever’s inside—napkins, old receipts, useless junk.

He winces as he tries to force himself upright. I grab my discarded shirt from the floor and press it hard against his side. Blood soaks through almost instantly, hot and slick against my hands.

“Hold this. Don’t move— Don’t— I’m going to get help.”

His hand shoots out, catching my wrist. His grip is weaker than I’ve ever felt it, and my stomach sinks at what this could mean.

“No. There is no help. I need to get us another car and then⁠—”

“But you’re dying!”

Letting go of my wrist, he shoves the door open, sliding off his seat and stepping into the storm.

“Stay here,” he grunts as he stumbles, catching himself against the trunk.

My blood-soaked hands shake, tears still drying on my face and fresh ones blurring my eyes. I drag my jeans up, pull my jacket on, and start to climb after him when a flash of bright headlights stops me.

“I told you to stay in the damn truck,” he bites out, lips in a firm line.

Standing beside a smaller pickup, snow whips around him, his hand braced on the door like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Did you just steal this?”

He doesn’t answer. He grabs me and shoves me into the passenger seat and slams the door, then drags himself around the front and drops into the driver’s seat, hand pressing into the wound as the engine roars.