“Weight of the World”
Briella isn’t breathing.
Her chest—normally so soft and warm when I press my mouth to it—is still. Too still. Her lips are pale, kissed with that wrong shade of blue I’ve only ever seen on corpses.
I’ve made corpses before.
I’ve watched men’s souls leave their bodies and blood pool beneath their twitching flesh. I’ve watched women die with whispers on their lips and fear still frozen across their faces.
Most of the time, it’s a necessity. The addiction. The treatment. But I’ve taken pleasure in it—at times.
But this? It’s not pleasure or power.
This isterror.
And it’s stronger than anything I’ve ever known.
“Get the AED—now!” Jude cuts through the room, sharp as a blade. His knees hit the floor beside her, hands already moving to check her pulse, to tilt her head back. His fingers brush over the softness of her throat. “Nothing,” he mutters.
My stomach drops into a cold pit. My soul is a grave. My fingers twitch at my sides like they want to act, to fix, todosomething—but I don’t knowhow. I’ve never known how.
When it comes to pain, I’m an artist. When it comes to healing…I’m useless.
Vincent is somewhere behind me,roaring. I hear the sound of fists slamming into flesh—wet and dull and horrifying. Alden’s snarling, or maybe crying, or maybe choking on his own blood. The sound barely penetrates the fog in my head.
I don’t care. As long as he still lives for Briella to kill.
All I care about is the girl lying on the floor with no heartbeat, no light in her eyes.
Briella.Mine.The ultimate direction of my damned moral compass.
Jude knows exactly what to do. Of course he does. He grabs his medical bag, digs for the AED.
He doesn’t flinch. His hands are already moving—interlocked, pressing down on her chest. One, two, three…
He counts. Measured. Controlled. His hands are steadier than ever. This isn’t the first time I’ve watched him work over her body like it’s something sacred.
During the Initiation—when we pushed her past every threshold, when we ripped her open in every way imaginable—Jude got her through it. And tended to her afterward. Jude checked her for tears and internal damage and painstakingly changed her bandages every damn day.
Jude sat up with her, whispering into her ear when she whimpered in her sleep.
After the arrow—when I fucked her and exacted retribution through her flesh—it was Jude who kept her alive through the blood loss. He was the one who stitched her. Stabilized her. Cursed me to hell while wrapping her in warmth I cannot provide.
And after I forced myself into her mouth, merciless and greedy, not stopping until she passed out with me still downher throat—limp, unconscious, fuckingfragile—it was Jude who knelt beside her and coaxed her back into the world of the living.
I see it now for what it is: I keep breaking her.
He keeps bringing her back.
The AED chirps to life. Jude slaps the first electrode pad over her right collarbone, the second on her ribs. The machine begins to analyze, mechanical, calm, and cruel.
Analyzing rhythm. Do not touch the patient.
Jude pulls back just enough, hands hovering. Sweat drips from his brow. I can see the sheen of panic beneath the practiced movements. He’s scared. Not for himself—never for himself.
Shock advised.
“Clear!” Jude shouts, though no one’s touching her but him.
