Page 140 of Gravehouse

Camille sighs, pushing up from the sofa. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Cool!” I ignore her, annoyed with her overshare.

What the fuck is taking Emeric so long anyway?

I reach for the phone on the small table, tapping the screen a few times before putting it back.

Camille returns just as the main door slams open on Aléia, and behind her, Emeric.

It takes me a second to look at what he’s pushing in, and when my eyes land on the gurney, I lift slowly out of my chair.

“What is this?” I ask, catching the blade at the handle without taking my eyes off him.

A bloody arm slides to the side, and—wait. I recognize those tattoos.

He’s not moving.

Thud. Thud.

“This!” Emeric gestures to him like a prized fucking fish he caught. “Is your gift.”

My mouth snaps shut.

He must read my expression because his brows dip inward. “Yes, for your hard work. Now, come…”

I can’t move. My muscles seize, everything in me locking up.

“Mariee…” he drawls, his voice drifting in and out. “Do I have to repeat myself?”

“Not at all,” I say, blinking up at my father.

I tighten my grip on the blade. Each step hits somewhere in my fucking chest.

Odd. Would prefer it not do that.

Metallic hits my nose, mixed with… what is that?

One more step and his face comes into view. Split lip, blood dried into his eyebrow, lashes stuck together with it. My fingers go numb around the handle.

“Jesus, you’re slow—here! I’ll fucking do it!” Camille shoulder-barges past me but doesn’t get far before I grab her by the hair and tug her back.

“Ouch!” she screams, stepping back behind me.

Another step.

The blade in my left sheath finds my hand, and without looking away from Asher, I slice clean across Aléia’s throat.

Camille’s screams erupt behind me, people moving at the edge of my vision. No doubt Emeric has slithered off like a fucking snake, but I don’t care. I don’t care about a fucking thing except that he’s…

I drop to Asher’s side, cupping his head. “Oh my God. What did he do?” I whisper, his blood once again on my hands.

Asher laughs, and then winces, clutching where the piece is sticking out of his side.

I slap his hand away. “Leave it! It’s what’s stopping you from bleeding out.”

Punk stares at Asher. “Ivy! We need to?—”

“—I’m fucking fine!” Asher snaps, trying to sit up. “You and me!” He glares. “We gotta talk.”