Page 27 of Madness & Mayhem

He shrugs. “Don’t know, but the electricity works, and there’s a fire to heat the place. That’s all we need right now until we figure out what our next move is.”

He walks up the small front porch, lifting the worn welcome mat which is a shade of brown, though I don’t think it was always supposed to be that color.

Reign lifts up the corner, producing a key against the wooden boards. He lifts it up, and a ring of dust leaves a print in its place.

“How did you know that was there?” I ask him, confused on so many levels.

He turns his head toward me. “I know people, Lakyn. Nothing you need to worry about.”

I huff behind him as he sticks the key in the door, turning it roughly. The lock doesn’t budge for a moment, sticking inside the mechanism until I listen as it slowly turns, unlocking the front door.

He shoves it open with his shoulder, and the wooden door must have warped over the years, scraping against the floor as it slides open. A waft of dust hits me, and I wave my hand in front of my face to rid the stale smell.

The inside is small, with the small living room attached to the kitchen. There’s an old couch that looks like it has a pull-out bed in front of an old box TV next to the fireplace. The kitchen is dated from the looks of it, the wood cabinets full of grease and grime. The stove rusted along the edges.

There’s an old rug in front of the fireplace that has about an inch of dust on it.

It’s not ideal, and nothing like I’ve ever lived in, or stepped in even, but it’s going to have to do. It’s either inside here, or outside in the woods.

Reign doesn’t say a word as he shuts the door, the groaning against the floor making my ears wince. He locks it before stepping away, his steps suddenly slow and labored as he heads toward the couch.

“Fuck,” he groans as he sits down, taking the mask off the top of his head and tossing it onto the ground. He rolls onto his side, going behind his back and pulling out a small first aid kit.

That snaps me into action. I step forward, walking up to the couch and getting to my knees. “Let me help.”

He gives me a look. “You aren’t going to be able to do stitches, Lakyn, so just let me.”

My head shakes. “No, I can do it. Let me help.”

He stares at me a moment before he lifts the kit toward me. “Don’t fucking kill me.”

I narrow my eyes slowly, playfully. “It’s not a promise.”

He lets out a groan as he leans back on the couch, pulling his shirt up out of the way. His abdomen is revealed, showing off the stitches that are barely holding his wound together at this point.

I drop the kit to the ground, opening it up and seeing the bloody supplies, all tossed inside quickly, without a second thought.

I move the items around with my fingers until I find the needle and thread. I pull them out, along with some gauze, antibiotic cream, and a small bottle of sterile water.

I grab the bottle, unscrewing the top and leaning over Reign, I give him a look as I pour the bottle slightly, dripping some on his wound.

He hisses through his teeth, and I watch as the dark red blood dilutes to a light pink.

“I would say I’m sorry, but I do think you deserve it a little bit,” I clip, unwrapping some of the gauze and pressing it against his wound. He lets out a groan, his head turning toward the back of the couch.

The blood soaks through the gauze, instantly filling the white fabric and turning it a red. I pull it back, and he lets out a hiss as I fold the fabric over and press it against his wound a second time. The bleeding lets up, and when I pull it back this time, it looks much better.

I swallow down the sudden knot in my throat as I pick up the needle and thread.

“I can do it, Lakyn,” he groans.

I shake my head. With shaky fingers, I weave the thread through the needle as I prepare to stitch him up. “I can do it. You’ll do it and botch it like you did last time. Let me do it right.”

His brow furrows. “Do you even know how to stitch something up?”

I shrug, inching my knees closer to the edge of the couch. “I mean, I’ve patched a hole in my pants before. It didn’t look really pretty, but neither did your stitch job.” I shrug again. “I’ll at least get them to stay in place.”

He glares at me a moment before he leans back, letting out a sigh. His head tilts toward the ceiling, his Adam’s apple bobbing with his swallow. His eyes shutter closed, and I take that as my cue. Pressing against my knees, my spine curls over as I stare at his wound. Only two stitches remain, one on each end of the stab wound.