9. She Who Kills
Danny gently laid me on the bed. He cupped his hands and let them slowly drift along the length of my body, never making contact. The sound of bones realigning filled the air. Were it not for the pain I would have cringed.
“I can’t heal your internal injuries,” he sighed.
I coughed and tasted blood in my mouth. “What about your blood?”
“And how do you suggest I get it to where it needs to be?”
“Let me drink,” I replied. It was the only answer.
Danny pulled back from the bed, torn between wanting to help, and the unknown — what would happen to him if he let me drink?
“I don’t think I necessarily have to drink from you. Just a few drops on my tongue…”
In an instant he was hovering over me, a blade slicing his palm. As long as I didn’t need to latch onto him to drink
