Page 66 of Breathe Like Hell

Mason didn’t stop fucking me.

I regret this.

He was so nice to me about my failures, and look how I’m thanking him…

There was the sound of a drawer opening in the kitchen, and I managed to peek over at Micah through squinted eyes, feeling nervous and stupid and kind of sad—until I saw what he was holding and my fear took over completely.

Micah walked straight up to us, zero hesitation in his movements as he flipped a knife in his palm, then stabbed it straight through the back of Mason’s hand. The tip was jammed into the wood of the table, keeping Mason’s hand pinned down.

I screamed at the top of my lungs, eyes flying wide open as I tried to scramble away, palms pressing over my tits to cover them.

Mason ripped the knife out of his hand, then threw it across the kitchen at a speed that seemed impossible. The blade buried itself deep in Micah’s shoulder, but he didn’t react other than to reach around and pull it out of his flesh.

I slammed my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming again, horror encroaching on my thoughts, all notions of modesty disappearing. My pulse was getting really uneven, my breathing becoming shallow, my body temperature no longer regulating itself correctly.

Oh no.

Micah turned on the faucet and started rinsing the knife while I stared at the deep wound next to his shoulder blade through torn fabric, the blood and ichor soaking his white shirt. A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck while heat pulsed in my face. My fingers trembled. I looked over to see Mason, his bloody hand, thick red liquid dripping all over the table next to me.

And then I passed out.

━━━━━

I opened my eyes slowly, everything blurry above me. My head hurt and my pulse was shaky. I was lying on the floor of Micah’s kitchen, flat on my back with my feet propped on a chair. There was a cold rag on my forehead.

Mason and Micah were both leaning over me with concerned expressions on their faces. It felt like I was in Heaven.

“Are you okay?” Micah asked.

“I don’t know. What—” My eyes caught on the bundle of black fabric wrapped around Mason’s hand and all my memories came rushing back. I swallowed hard, trying to erase the image of the knife going through clean through his hand. “Oh. I’m sorry?”

“Why are you sorry?” Mason asked. “He should be sorry. I knew you didn’t like seeing so much blood like that.” He jerked his head at Micah and my eyebrows pulled together in annoyance.

“If memory serves, both of you stabbed each other.”

“He started it.”

“You started it by fucking her in my kitchen.” Micah turned to glare at Mason.

“Can I have something to wear?” I asked, cutting into their petty argument. I covered my chest with my palms, keeping my legs shut tight.

“No,” both of them answered simultaneously.

My mouth popped open.

Even though they’d said the same fucking thing, neither of them seemed happy that the other one had answered. As if each of them believed they were the only one allowed to talk to me like that. Stupid.

“Yes,” I insisted. “Give me some clothes.”

My head spun when I tried to sit up, so I quickly laid back down, feeling the heaviness in my skull pressing me into the floor. The shaky beat of my pulse went all throughout me. I adjusted the rag on my forehead, one arm crossed over my bare chest.

“Please,” I added.

Micah finally relented and disappeared, returning after only a minute with one of his t-shirts. I was glad he had so many, since I seemed to always be stealing them, and Mason always seemed to be shredding them. He helped me slip it over my head, then tugged it down, lifting my body enough to cover me. Once the soft cotton settled over my skin, I felt like I could think better.

“Are you going to kill Aamon soon?” I questioned. Somehow, I still knew next to nothing about the situation, the plan, the history, Aamon himself—despite my life being the one supposedly at risk now.

Mason sighed loudly.