Page 177 of What We Become

Heat pools low in my belly. “What is it about blood?”

His gaze drops to the red soaking into the gauze. “It’s honest. Warm, messy, and alive. There’s no pretending once blood enters the room.”

“And how far does it go?”

His eyes return to mine. “That depends on why you’re bleeding. Blood you choose to give me? As far as you’ll let me. Blood that means I might lose you?” His jaw tightens. “That isn’t a kink.”

“What about the blood we spill?”

“Are you the one gutting the guy in this scenario?”

I nod.

He takes my hand and guides it to the front of his pants, pressing my palm against the hard ridge straining there. Heat floods through me, chasing away some of the earlier chill.

“That’s a kink?”

“That’s fucking heaven.”

“Why aren’t you giving in to it right now?” I whisper, curling my fingers around him through the fabric. He groans.

“Because you had a scare,” he says, voice rough. “I’m trying to take care of you.”

“Letting me give you what you need is taking care of me,” I counter, my hand working him up and down.

“Wildcat,” he warns.

I don’t stop.

“Holden.”

With a growl, he lifts my leg, his mouth descending to the cut, tongue tracing the length of it slow and deliberate, moaning low in his throat as the metallic tang hits him. I gasp, the sting mixing with a rush of desire that makes my pussy clench. Then he’s scooping me up, carrying me upstairs two steps at a time, kicking the main bedroom’s door shut behind us.

My uniform hits the floor, his shirt gets yanked off, and neither of us makes it as far as our shoes before he shoves my panties aside and drives into me, his pants still around his ankles. His hand slides over my injured leg, streaking his palm with blood, and when he drags it back down, his forearm knocks against the knife inside my boot.

“Get the knife.”

Holden stills inside me, his eyes following mine to the leather strap around my ankle. He unfastens it, pulls the folded blade free, and flicks it open between us.

“Cut me,” I whisper.

He lowers the tip of the blade to my chest, dragging it between my breasts and along my belly. “Where?”

“Here,” I whisper, my voice rough, and I guide his hand, the cool metal of the blade, to the soft skin of my inner thigh, right above my knee. “Just a little. Enough to leave a mark.”

His eyes meet mine, and I know he understands.

Holden presses the tip of the blade to my skin. His breath catches as he draws it slowly, opening a thin red line. The sting makes me gasp and clench around his cock, and his gaze locks on the blood welling against my skin.

“Fuck, wildcat,” he groans, his hips pushing deeper into me, a frantic, desperate rhythm. He pulls the knife away, folds it shut, and tosses it toward the foot of the bed, then his mouth is on the cut, hot and wet, licking away the blood, his tongue stroking the delicate wound. The sting mixes with a rush of desire so potent it steals my breath. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, demanding more.

He sucks at the wound as he fucks, his low moan vibrating against my thigh, and I feel myself shatter around him, the first wave of orgasm tearing through me, sharp and sudden. He takes my mouth then, hungry and demanding, tasting the blood on his tongue, on mine, the intimate, animal taste of it driving us both to the edge.

He pulls back, lips still brushing. “Mine,” he growls.

“Yours.”

He sits back, hooking my leg over his shoulder and letting the blood drip down his chest. I see the angry red line on my inner thigh, the deeper cut on my shin, and the wet, shining smear of blood on his chest. It’s a map of my panic, a raw, undeniable record of what I felt and what I chose to do with it.