"Don't! Don't touch him! I'll do it—I'll give her the blood!"
The moment I said it, a needle pierced my arm.
Cold metal against warm skin, and soon, crimson blood began to flow from my body.
I was already weak from blood loss; dizziness clouded my vision as the room tilted.
After one full bag, my face had turned ghostly pale.
The nurse reached to remove the needle, but Weston stopped her. "Draw two more bags. Keep them ready for Patricia."
"Mr. Holmes," the nurse protested softly, "Mrs. Holmes has already lost too much blood—if we continue—"
"She won't die," he said flatly.
Three light words, each sharper than a blade, slicing into my heart until it bled anew.
The nurse hesitated, then reluctantly continued. Only after three full bags did he finally stop, taking the still-warm blood himself and leaving without another glance.
By the time it was over, my lips were colorless, and the world was spinning.
I could barely breathe.
Yet despite the weakness that crushed me, one thought burned in my chest—I had to leave this place.
I staggered out of the bed, and dragged myself toward the door.
The moment I opened the door, Patricia was already standing outside.