Witch of the Woods by Theophilus Monroe & Michael Anderle

Author:Theophilus Monroe & Michael Anderle [Monroe, Theophilus & Anderle, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: LMBPN Publishing
Published: 2023-10-11T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The engine of my beat-up Dodge Ram roared like a cornered beast, echoing the urgency I felt to get Dorian back to my trailer. A few hard raindrops struck the windshield, followed by a sudden downpour. The rain pelted against the windshield, blurring my vision, but I refused to slow down. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, and every so often, Dorian’s ragged breaths would hitch, sending small jolts of panic through me.

“Damn it,” Dorian muttered, struggling to reach the wound on his back. “Sorry about your seat.”

“I’m not worried about the damn seat. Are you sure you’re fine?”

Dorian chuckled weakly, his breath ghosting across the window as he leaned against the cold glass. “Need to get the bullet out, then I’ll be all right.”

I could tell he was trying to keep a brave face, but the pain radiating off him was palpable. My mind raced with worry for Dorian and fury at Jim Bob.

I swerved into the gravel driveway of my trailer home and slammed on the brakes, sending a spray of pebbles against the rusty metal siding.

“Come on.” I jumped from the truck, barely fazed by the rain that drenched my shirt as I raced around to Dorian’s side. His eyes were closed, and for a horrifying second, I thought I’d lost him. But when I touched his shoulder, his eyes fluttered open, clouded with pain but still alive.

“I forgot how much it sucks to get shot,” he chuckled, his words raspy. If the rain wasn’t so intense, and the situation with Dorian’s wound wasn’t so urgent, I might have asked him about when he’d been shot before. I supposed that was a tale for another time. He reached for my hand. I grasped it firmly, feeling his icy fingers wrap around mine, and pulled him from the vehicle. Together, we stumbled up the wooden steps to my trailer, both soaking wet.

Inside, I led Dorian to the couch and eased him onto the worn cushions. “Let me see.” My voice shook more than I’d like to admit as I reached for the hem of his shirt.

“Careful,” he warned, wincing as I pried the rain- and blood-soaked fabric over his head. The wound was ugly. A ragged hole, angry red and oozing blood.

“Shit,” I muttered. My stomach churned at the sight, but I knew I had to keep it together for Dorian’s sake. “We need to get that bullet out.”

“Agreed,” he ground through clenched teeth. “Have a set of tweezers?”

I bolted to the small bathroom, my heart pounding in my ears as I rummaged through the cabinet. I grabbed the biggest tweezers we had, alcohol, and gauze before racing back to Dorian.

“Ready?” I asked after sterilizing the tweezers, gripping them tightly as I climbed behind him on the couch.

“Go ahead,” he invited, his voice taut with anticipation. He pressed a balled-up fist against his mouth, bracing himself for the pain.

I drew a deep breath, attempting to steady my shaky hand. I leaned in close, ignoring the coppery scent of blood that filled my nostrils.

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