Bryson rolled the two of them, holding tightly to Regan’s hand—the one still gripping the knife buried in Bryson’s thigh. The two fought, and Bryson desperately tried to get Regan to let go of the blade. Pain lanced through him as the knife twisted deeper with each motion.
Regan moved his body, gaining leverage, and the two switched places on the floor. Suddenly Bryson was on his back beneath Regan. Regan’s right forearm pressing into Bryson’s neck as he tried to free his left hand from Bryson’s grasp.
“It’s not very often you meet your equal,” Regan said. “I knew in that moment I had to have you. Knew you were a monster just like me.”
With his free hand, Bryson punched Regan twice in the face before Regan pressed his head closer to Bryson, protecting himself. “My father was supposed to kill you. I suppose I can at least thank him for this one small thing,” Regan said, his cum-soaked face rubbing against Bryson’s cheek.
Warm liquid pulsed out of Bryson’s thigh, and he felt lightheaded. He instinctually knew he didn’t have much time.
Pushing weight into his feet, he pressed his middle into Regan, effectively flipping him up and over. Regan went flying over his head, and the knife ripped from Bryson’s body. Sharp warm pain followed, but Bryson ignored it.
The two scrambled to get up, and Bryson waited for Regan to scream or alert his help. But instead Regan just stood, bloody knife in hand. Bryson watched in horror as Regan brought the blade to his lips, licking the blood away and wiping the residue with the back of his hand.
“You better decide your next play. That wound isn’t closing anytime soon,” Regan said, delight in his eyes. “I’m going to fuckyour body as it exsanguinates on my bedroom floor. It’ll be a glorious end to this little game of ours.”
Regan’s eyes were alight with arousal and promise.
Kaydon and Seth’s faces flashed in Bryson’s mind. If he died here, so would they.
Lunging, Bryson ran full force into Regan. The two tumbled to the ground, and the clang of metal against the floor was music to Bryson’s ears.
The pair exchanged blows, scrambling on the now blood-soaked floor. Physically, they were evenly matched.
Regan snuck a knee strike into Bryson’s side, and there was a sickening pop with pain detonating under his ribs. The air from Bryson’s lungs rushed out, and he struggled to take in another breath. Regan rolled easily on top and pressed both hands around Bryson’s neck.
Bryson could feel Regan’s hardening cock between his legs. Black spots appeared in his vision, and his left hand reached out wildly, trying to find something, anything.
When his fingers curled around something hard, Bryson brought his hand back with as much force as he could muster.
The blade punctured Regan’s neck and came out of the other side. Bryson tore it free with a crackling ripping sound.
Wet gurgling came from Regan’s mouth as he released Bryson.
Bryson crawled to the toy box at the foot of the bed. Desperately trying to take in air, as Regan was choking on his own blood behind him.
His chest burned, every breath jagged and useless. The knee Regan had driven into him felt like it had cracked something open inside. Air scraped at his throat but never seemed to reach his lungs. His vision tunneled.
Collapsed lung.
His fingers closed around the breathing hose in the toy box. There was no time to think, only to act.
The knife shook in his hand as he pressed the tip just under his collarbone, between the ribs. Who said watching survivalist YouTube was a waste?
Before Bryson could change his mind, he hit the knife’s hilt, piercing the space. Pain lit up his nerves, and a hiss of air escaped.
Before he lost consciousness, he shoved the breathing tube into the hole that he had created in his chest.
Immediately, his lungs gasped for air and he felt the pressure stabilize.
Falling onto the floor, Bryson savored the oxygen moving in and out of his lungs. He was vaguely aware of Regan floundering like a fish nearby.
With new breath in his lungs, Bryson’s mind told him he wasn’t out of danger. He was still bleeding out. Crawling to the fireplace, he pushed the poker deep before collapsing at the edge.
Bryson pushed his hand on the knife wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but blood just poured all around his hand.
Clinging to consciousness, Bryson waited until the poker had been in the flames long enough, then he brought it close. Taking a shirt, he stuffed it into his mouth before pressing the iron into his thigh.
Pain screamed all around him. It was inside him, covering him, filling him. It was the type of pain he could never escape. The room swam, and darkness swelled.
