The Blood We Crave: Part Two (The Hollow Boys, #4)

by Monty Jay

But I know what their blood looks like. What it feels like in my hands, how it burns my nose, and the smell alone is what wakes me up every night with cold sweats. How is it possible to know the inside of someone’s body so intimately but still know nothing other than their name?

*Rook removed Alistair from group chat* Rook: Now that Dad’s gone. Rook: Let’s fucking torch this place.

“The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.” “To be seen as ivory and gold”—that’s what I’d written on the page years ago in this copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. The world is changed because you are made of midnights and crimson. The curves of your lips rewrite my purpose.—T.

“I want to make Romeo jealous. I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter, and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain.” I’d left little hearts around the quote. This is a novel about a narcissist whose self-obsession killed him. And this is what you underline? You’re an incurable romantic, darling. How did I become your fixation?—T.

“Easy, Little Miss Death.” He drops his forehead to mine, his fingers rubbing circles into my lower back. “Knives away. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

“If you forget who you are in there,” I whisper, swirling my hips against the bulge in his boxers, “remember what it feels like to be with me.” The left side of his mouth tilts up. “How could I ever forget?”

“I think I knew you in a past life. Do you think that’s crazy?” My fingertips trace the lines of his collarbone. “No.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “But me wanting to know you in every life after this one might be.”

His revenge had become ours. His pain was something we shared. The fourth and final member of Ponderosa Springs’s bastard founding sons. “I leave and you let Rook take the lead?” His voice is smoke, quiet, lingering. “You’ve lost your edge, Caldwell.” Welcome home, Silas.

“Hello?” I call to the dark. The forest surrounding my property stares back at me, trees groaning from the force of the wind, a gust of it brushing my hair in front of my face. Yes, Lyra, good move. The psycho killer is definitely going to reply. Gods, you act like you’ve never seen a single horror movie cliché. Not a fucking one.

She looks so…pure, delicate, this tender, caring little thing. How is it possible for such a feral beast to lurk beneath the surface of a body so unsuspecting? I hate the world for what it had done to her.

However, there was a ridiculous amount of cleanup that had to be done. No one can ever accuse her of being gentle again. We’d dragged the body outside and worked together on trying to clean the house. The bad news is I have to tell Lyra that her moment of blackout rage is going to result in us redoing her entire kitchen. The good news is I have a feeling we’ll be leaving her cabin in the woods and moving to the estate soon.

Rosie’s death had put us on pause, and tonight, in this moment, we’d press Play again. But now, we are different. Changed. We will never be those people again, who we once were. Our goals and dreams have been altered, swayed by influences we never expected. We live in a present that we never would’ve imagined for ourselves two years ago.

It’s quiet for only a moment. “Would you stab me if I said Lyra freaks me out?” “No.” A sigh leaves me as I look at Rook. “But she might.”

I know May told me his father had crushed all the soft things about him long ago. But I don’t think that’s true. I think he just became an expert at hiding it. He is soft. In ways you wouldn’t expect. He’s soft in the mornings, just before he’s had his coffee and his gaze is still sleepy. That’s when he picks out which mugs we’re drinking from that day, and somehow, he always makes sure they go together. Soft when he cooks us dinner, and even more so when he’s annotating my books. He couldn’t be anything but that.

“I—” He stops, his throat working as he finds the words. “I feel things sometimes, I think. They’re these physical reactions to certain situations, but I can never identify them.” He’d been conditioned so long he can’t even tell what his emotions are. Thatcher lived most of his life killing and shutting out feelings—of course he doesn’t know what they feel like. “Okay, so tell me what they feel like to you.” A deep V creases his forehead. “What do you mean?” I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. It’s a little funny that the know-it-all is so lost.

“The sting of this blade. I feel this when I touch you. When I’m around you, it’s like fresh cuts. Painful in a way I crave,” he mutters. “What is that one?” My chest expands, and I roll my lips together. I know what it means for me. I know that emotion so well it feels like I was born to experience it. I’m afraid of what it means for him though. “I—” “Tell me,” he urges. “What is it for you?” “Love.” I say it on an exhale. “That’s what love feels like for me. It stings, it hurts, because it’s real and you’re afraid of losing it. But it stays with you. It scars.”

I’ve never needed to make myself digestible for Thatcher. Never had to curb who I am or be less. I’ve never had to make myself easier to love. He has always swallowed me whole and savored every bite.

Alistair had made a joke the other day that I might have to invest in a leash for the killer queen, or else I’d spend the rest of my life getting rid of bodies. I’d only smiled because I knew I’d bury bodies forever if that’s what she wanted. If that’s what she needed.

“I guess you’re not interested in playing the good guy? The hero?” she snips. I laugh, cold and distant. “Not when morally gray looks this good on me.”

“Are you seriously bribing an officer in public?” “Don’t insult me, Detective. It would’ve been much more than that if I was.” I click my tongue. “This is for your coffee, along with Gerrick Knight’s, who is sulking in the corner, the unmarked vehicles, and the three agents behind us. Enjoy.”

“Regardless of what’s in this, Pierson,” Odette calls out from behind me, “this isn’t the last time I’ll be seeing you.” I slide my dark sunglasses over my eyes, smirking as I look over my shoulder. “Maybe, maybe not.” I shrug, my tone sharp. “This is the only time I’ll be playing nice though.”

“I wanted it to sound like mourning because a part of you died the night we met.” He presses his forehead to mine, letting me breathe him in. “Thank you for loving me with what remained.”

“Do you wanna leave?” I shake my head. “I’m content where you are. Location is only semantics.” “What about if I said to the grave?” My darling phantom. How does she not realize yet that I would follow her anywhere? That she will never be alone again. My ghost.

“Death is trivial. He can’t keep you from me. I’ll follow you to the grave every time and find you in each life after.”