“I’ll be here. I might shut my eyes for a few. I can’t keep them open anymore.”
So much blood is coming from them now.
I spin around as fast as I can, needing to hide my tears and bottle my emotions so he doesn’t feel it. I walk with determination and long strides down the hallway.
A few photos are hanging on the walls, and I stop when a certain picture catches my attention. It’s Oklahoma and another man. They are standing next to a vehicle clearly meant for storm chasing.
This must be his brother. Banks.
They both seemed so happy with how big and bright their smiles are. No wonder Oklahoma hates storms and chasers. His entire life changed in the blink of an eye, and he had to watch his brother die. The trauma alone would be difficult to live with.
And then to be changed into a vampire?
He must have lived a lonely life.
I’m here now.
And he won’t ever be alone again.
“I’ll take care of him, Banks.” I tap his face on the image. “He will be safe with me. I promise.” Giving the picture one last appreciative look, I continue my walk down the hallway.
The archway opens to a large kitchen on the left with all the new upgrades.
“Oh my,” I gasp, running my hand over the sleek concrete countertop. There are all-new stainless-steel appliances and a copper sink. The backsplash tiles seem old, maybe vintage, and if you step back, together, they make a sunset with green at the bottom and different shades of orange, reds, yellows, and pinks to create a horizon.
I bet if Oklahoma and I lay on the roof again, the sunset would look just like this.
Standing in the middle of the brand-new, barely used kitchen, I know this is my home. I sense it. This is where I’m meant to be. I imagine myself cooking all of my favorite meals for us.
Glancing out the window above the sink, the rain doesn’t relent, and a few cows and horses are standing in the middle of the pasture, relaxed.
I hope that when Oklahoma is better, he can take me on a tour of the ranch. I’d love for all of this chaos to be behind us so we can enjoy what’s to come.
Pausing the daydream, I twirl around to see where he keeps the mugs. I find a stovetop coffeepot sitting on the oven. Opening the cabinet to the left, I find a handful of mugs. All of them have a Dead Man’s Ranch logo.
Except one.
“Always follow the storm. —Banks.” The mug seems handmade. It’s horrible. It might be the ugliest mug I’ve ever seen, but it was made with love.
The rim is lumpy, and the handle is skinny on one end and thick on the other. The surface of the mug is bumpy too. This looks like a failed pottery class assignment.
I think drinking from this cup is exactly what Oklahoma needs right now.
But that’s not all he needs.
Taking another mug from the cabinet, I set it on the counter, then pull a knife from a wooden block pushed against the backsplash. Hissing as I pull the gauze away from the small cut I made on my palm earlier, the tape tugging on my skin, I press the blade against the semi-open wound.
I turn my head away, squeeze my eyes shut, and dig the blade in deep. I hold my breath, waiting for the pain to pass. Making a fist, I tighten it in pulses, the blood flowing into the mug, filling it slowly.
Time seems to stand still for me. I lean over, my elbow resting on the counter, propping my head up with my free hand. The last of the sunlight fades, leaving the kitchen darker than it was.
When the blood stops at the rim, I stretch my arm over the sink to rinse my palm. Pressing a paper towel against the cut to stop the bleeding, I use the same gauze and tape to cover the wound. I probably need stitches.
Grabbing the mugs, I hurry back to the bedroom, stopping in my tracks when I see Oklahoma. He’s so still. So pale. Blood lines have dried on his cheeks. His arms lie peacefully by his side.
I can’t see his chest moving. I can’t see him breathing.
“Oakley?” I whisper, taking a step forward when thunder causes me to jump, nearly spilling the cup of blood.
