Page 135 of Lucky 14

I close my mouth, but it feels like the screaming continues.

Someone else. I’ve killed someone else.

Wyatt doesn’t slow for me. I must be following him, but I feel like I’m floating. And as I do, I recognize the symptoms of dissociation quicker than I did the last time.

I’m having a trauma response.

I try to force myself to breathe. In for four, hold for seven, only seven feels like an eternity. I can only hold for two before I’m gasping for breath again. I keep trying, though, and by the time I can hold for four, I see we’ve made it back to the well-beaten path, and all I hear is the sound of our breath and footsteps.

Wyatt keeps looking around, throwing me a quick glance. He’s still alive. Why is he still alive?

Breathe, Holli, breathe.

Wyatt trips, and I look down.

He has no shoes on, his feet pale in the dim light of dawn. Why the hell doesn’t he have shoes on?

I’m so distracted that I accidentally bump into his back, and Wyatt lets out a grunt of what sounds like pain.

That fuzzy panic starts to take over my brain again, but I screw my eyes shut, breathing in and out. I can’t panic right now. We have to get back safely.

Wyatt is still gripping my hand so hard it hurts. When we make it back to the house, and the lights fall across Wyatt, I again see the dark blood staining his pants.

“Get inside.” He takes one last look over his shoulder and shoves me in the front door.

Once inside, I don’t feel like a band has been removed from around my chest. If anything, it feels tighter. Wyatt is bleeding just like Elijah was.

My body locks up, frozen for a second. I force myself to take another breath as Oakley crowds around us.

This is stupid. I shouldn’t be panicking about…my kidnapper?

But the thought feels flat, and that panic still coils inside me. He’s hurt, and I can’t argue any longer. I fucking care.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Day 12

Even inside, I don’t feel safe.

I pull Holland back to the bathroom. I saw blood on her hand, and I’m not sure if that’s from me or if that motherfucker cut her. Some of her hair is missing—the light spot has been chopped like poorly cut bangs.

“Wyatt…” She’s pulling against my grip, but I don’t care. If I can get her cleaned up and taken care of, maybe I can stay present long enough to find Weston. I should just track Weston down on the cameras right now. Should take the cart to the villa and unlock my arsenal of weapons. But that blood on Holland’s hand is nagging at me for some stupid fucking reason. And her touch is grounding me in a way that makes me feel…okay. And I can’t explain why.

“Wyatt, you’re bleeding.”

That man was after Holland. Either it was random that he was creeping up on the house, or he was working with Weston, trying to scope out where I’ve been hiding. Or worse, trying to get to the people around me to exploit weakness. Trying to get inside my head. Like he did with the fox on my bed all those years ago.

Reluctantly, I let Holland go, and she steps back, gesturing at me, her tone frazzled. “You’re hurt.”

As I watch her, something inside me thinks she looks like a mother hen with all its feathers ruffled.

We like chickens. Chickens are nice.

Holland reaches for my groin, and I stiffen, the realization that her hands are right there suddenly making me hyper-aware. And now I’m aware of the pain there, and I see blood darkening my pants.

“Take these off.” She’s pulling at my pants. Instead of stopping her, I just watch.

“Why did you do that?” She sounds exasperated, pulling my pants down until I’m in my boxers, and I can see I must have gotten cut on my inner thigh, right by my groin. The cloth there is sliced, and blood drips down my thigh. It’s not worse than some of the injuries I got in my high school fight club, so I’m sure it’ll be fine. But Holland’s face is red.