Page 59 of Misted

Mist

During my most chaotic times, you’re the only thing that makes sense.

The villageI’d seen from the window is too damn far.

As if that isn’t enough, I have to hike through a forest to reach it.

My Louboutin high heels aren’t made for a rocky path. My arm’s injury is throbbing, and I’m clutching my other arm from where I removed the tracker. It took me a few minutes to find it, thinking he placed in my wrist. He’s smart enough to plant it in the underside of my arm. I almost carved my flesh out to get rid of it.

The drape I wrapped around my bicep is soaking red and it doesn’t seem like the bleeding will stop any time soon.

Worst of all? The constant pounding in my head that nearly splits my temples open. The dry scratchiness at the inside of my mouth causes my tongue to stick to the roof. The kitchen knife in my hand almost drops to the ground.

Dehydration, withdrawal, and bleeding out. I’ve been in better situations than this.

I’m tempted to curl into a ball and take the withdrawal while lying down. If I have a seizure now, I might fall and meet my death.

I shake my head to clear my wobbly vision and continue forging through the endless trees. Branches scratch my arms and my bare legs. The scrapes burn, but again everything burns. My arms, my skin, and even my half-empty heart.

I need to reach town and call Molly so she can get me the hell out of here.

Fucking Hawk. Doesn’t he know I’m detoxing? The least he could’ve done is bring my dose.

The smell of pine fills my nostrils. Birds chirp loudly up the tall trees. Rays of sunlight hit the top of my hair – my awfully dishevelled hair because of being face-fucked. I must look like a mess with dry cum all over me and blood dripping on my thousand pounds’ dress.

I’m so damn sore that I can still feel his merciless thrusts with every step I take.

I hate how much it turns me on. I hate him for doing this after years of pretending we don’t exist for each other.

I hate myself for wanting more.

Even as I take wobbly steps, I have to remind myself that I’m doing the right thing. If I go back, if I give in, it’ll be the end of us both.

Sweat trickles down my forehead and back. Pebbles crush under my shoes, and I avoid slipping and falling down on my face a few times.

I’m panting and choking on my own breaths. The throbbing in my head becomes a constant, intensified pounding.

I let go of the cloth wrapped around my wrist and clutch a tree trunk for balance with bloodied, clammy fingers. My breaths come fast and heavy like the gurgling of the dead. Without the cloth, blood drips from my arm to the tree leaves.

The reason the blood won’t stop is probably because of Omega rather than anything else. I need my dose. I fucking need it. I don’t care that I’m still a druggie after all. Omega numbs the parts that hurt the most.

Omega snuffs out memories.

I suck in a deep breath and push off the tree. I try to walk, but I’m swaying as if I’ve been drinking all night. My vision becomes blurry and my head turns dizzy.

Footsteps sound from behind me. Gripping the knife’s hilt tighter, I spin around so fast, I almost land on my face. I’m not in the mood to be messed with and I’d fucking kill anyone who gets in my way.

Now, if only my foggy vision would cooperate. I blink once. Twice. A larger than life presence stands at my face. Those dark turquoise eyes stare down at me with complete disapproval.

Fuck him. He didn’t even kiss me.

His eyes narrow at my still bleeding arm, and he reaches for it. I point the knife at his chest, stopping him. I’m breathing harshly, my head is a mess, and I need my damn fix.

The least he can do is bring my fix.

“If you’re going to stab me, then do it.” His shoulders square back and he’s still having that murderous expression as if he wants to throttle me. “Death is the only thing that will keep me away from you.”

My hold on the knife falters, but I continue holding it. He has to let me go while he still can.