until I'm finally free of them.
Fucking pussy.
Aftyn had taken an opportunistic swipe, and if I hadn't been so impressed by what he'd done to the priestess, I would have realized he was going to come at me. But nothing teaches lessons like pain, and although the cut is deeper than I'd like, I know if I can manage to keep it pretty clean, I'll be okay. What's more important is stopping the slow leak of blood rolling down my thigh with every beat of my heart.
Living the way I have means Aftyn isn't the first asshole who's taken the opportunity to hurt me, the difference between the two of us is that I always come out on top. It's obvious by the car he and Willa were driving that he isn't used to life being difficult. It's why he's still moping over his not-girlfriend being dead. I doubt he's ever been on the receiving end of something like what he did to the priestess, and when he was naked, I didn't see any scars to tell a story similar to mine. People like Aftyn need others because they've never learned to function on their own.
I've never needed anyone.
I haven't even wanted anyone before… but I do want Lakyn. And I don't care what that means.
If he wants me in his bed, I'll be there. If he wants me on the floor, I'll sleep there. If he wants me to kill, I will.
As long as I can be around him, life will be more tolerable, and as soon as Aftyn is gone everything will be better. No more masks, no more pretending, no more waiting to see if the next car that picks me up will want to hurt me or fuck me just because I wanted a ride. No more putting up with it until they drop their guard enough for me to slit their throats and move on.
It's thinking of how different life could be with Lakyn Meyer that drags my attention to my backpack again and I pull out Lakyn's shirt, pressing it to my nose to inhale deeply. The shirt smells like him, a mixture of cigarette smoke and warm male skin—but not like the greasy bastards that pick me up all the time. No, Lakyn smells like… Lakyn. Unique and good.
Pulling out one of my sharper knives from its zippered pocket, I slice his shirt into long strips, and then I take my shirt off to force enough of it into my mouth to help keep me quiet—and keep me from biting my tongue—because this is going to hurt.
I take a deep breath and lay the last clean washcloth over the cut, and then wrap the first strip of his shirt around my thigh, knotting it tight to hold the cloth in place and keep pressure on it. The pain is nauseating, but I've had worse, and with Lakyn's scent against my skin I'll always have him with me. That's what gets me through the rest of the strips, even when I have to lean against the tub to keep from getting sick.
When I finally finish, the bandaging job doesn't look half bad, and with the pressure on the wound it doesn't hurt as much to move my leg.
Or I'm just blocking out the pain, but who the fuck cares?
Gathering the remnants of Lakyn's shirt, I know I need to hide them, because I don't think either of them would understand. It's as I'm gathering the last scraps that I realize I'm staring at the pile of bedding that holds a corpse we'll have to get rid of tomorrow. The priestess hadn't been very appreciative of the attention Lakyn showed her, not even when he complimented how good her ass had felt.
"Perfect," I whisper to myself.
When I shuffle across the bathroom floor to unwrap her, I try to ignore just how dizzy I feel so I can finish this before I go to sleep. As soon as she's revealed, I use the pile of fabric to flip her onto her ruined stomach and slide my knife into her asshole, imagining how it had been for Lakyn.
It's always amazed me how easily sharp knives can cut through skin, but I imagine it wouldn't be this easy if she were alive. Still, I manage to widen the hole enough to stuff the scraps of Lakyn's shirt inside her where I know his cum is already waiting. It's messy, and I get blood all over my hands, but it's…