Page 88 of I’m The Worst

But then more blood pours out.

The tweezers clatter somewhere to the floor, and I grab the needle and thread, my fingers clumsy and numb as I push it through his skin, pulling it closed in uneven stitches that don’t look right, don’t feel right—each one dragging more blood up, more red soaking into my hands.

“I hate you. I hate you so fucking much right now,” I choke out.

And I keep going.

I don’t know if it’s right. I don’t know if it’s enough. I just keep going until there’s nothing left to stitch. Or close enough. I don’t know.

I dump the vodka over the wound.

He doesn’t react.

“Wolff…wake up. Please…” My hands press to his chest, feeling the faint, weak beat of his heart. “You’re not allowed to die. You don’t get to die after that, do you hear me? You don’t⁠—”

I stumble back, my hands covered in his blood, my head spinning as everything crashes in all at once.

I take a long pull of the vodka. It burns all the way down, but I barely feel it. I drink again. And again. Chasing something that might dull the edges of everything closing in around me.

I drink until the cages disappear.

Until I don’t see their faces.

Or the blood.

Or him lying here, not waking up.

I keep drinking until the world finally goes quiet. Until there’s nothing left inside me to feel.

My head feels like it was hit with a fucking sledgehammer. My whole body aches. Fresh stitches pull tight across my side. My left shoulder is on fire. My wrists are raw meat from the cuffs.

I force my eyes open, squinting against the weak light creeping through the curtains. There’s a thick wool blanket over my chest. The couch cushions are stiff beneath me.

Sitting up slowly, I grunt through the pain. The room tilts hard. Vision doubles for a second before it settles.

Fuck me. How long was I out?

My eyes snap up.

Where the hell is she?

The cabin is dead silent.

“AJ?”

I push the blanket off and stand, grabbing the wall when the room tilts.

Jesus fucking Christ. Look at me. Pathetic. Can’t even stand up straight without holding on to a wall like some weak fuck. When I push the bedroom open, I notice immediately that the bed is untouched.

Shit.

My instincts kick in automatically, even through the fog. I scan the corners, check the sightlines to the windows, note the positions of the two exits I can see from here. This safehouse is ancient. A lot of mercs know about it. If they found us while I was out, they would’ve put a bullet in my head, not left me breathing.

Still, I hate that I let myself crash this hard. First real sleep I’ve had in days, and it nearly got us both killed.

“Solnyshko?”

Every worst-case scenario races through my mind as I move. I check behind the couch, glance at the front door—boots still there, belt missing. I clear the kitchen quickly, eyes sweeping for signs of a struggle.