“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’dsubjected 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 tobleedyou?”
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.
