Bleeding Hearts Novels & Stories

It had grown and now she had moonflowers on her table and diamonds on her finger and a castle with her name on the gates. What do I have? The answer came to me slowly, painfully, like a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding. You have a failing heart because you gave your real one away. Three years ago, Blake had collapsed during a hunt. Heart failure, the healers said. He was dying, and there was only one cure, a transplant from a compatible donor. I was a perfect match. I didn't hesitate and gave him my heart without his knowledge. I touched the necklace one last time.

They no longer felt human emotions. I couldn't tell if Magnus' treatment of me came from fear of the drug inside him, or from some genuine desire to care for me. How did I become so hesitant, so unsure of myself? Maybe it was because I had never really known love. When I was young, Anya had been gravely ill. My parents poured every bit of their hearts into her, and to them, I was just the extra, the one they could overlook. Perhaps that was why, later, I gave my whole heart to Victor just for the smallest bit of kindness. And now with Magnus, love was still my greatest weakness.

🌹 43 🌹 “Fuck!” Ajay ran into the room when he noticed what went wrong. “How did this happen?” He quickly pressed the emergency button and soon after, a doctor and some nurses rushed in. Joan laid unconscious with the tears still fresh down her ears. Ajay sadly looked at her as he was ushered out of the room. “What is happening?” Abel soon arrived. “I don't know.” Ajay was panicking. “I came in and saw the heart monitor was unplugged and..and,,, and s-she was there..”

Each one radiates something different: Heartwood Emberroot hums with deep sorrow and embered hope. Ashbane carries the ache of betrayal, the weight of endings. Mireblossom pulses faintly, echoing my heartbeat. Lunacrown Thistle stings even from a distance, sharp, and proud, refusing to be tamed. Solstice Veinleaf is cold and impossibly bright, like moonlight on snow.

With my one free hand, I quickly dialed a number on my phone. Before long, someone in a white coat appeared at the end of the hall. "Christopher Morris? He has a history of heart disease, right?" the doctor asked as he led us down the VIP corridor. Selena nodded quickly. "So, is it a relapse of his heart condition?" The doctor shook their head. "No, he got kicked in the chest during a fight." Selena had mentioned her brother before. From her words, I could tell he was a good man.

"You're not as bad as you make yourself out to be; doing bad things, bad deeds, doesn't mean your attitude is so bad." He leaned on the steering wheel with his arms crossed and kept looking at me. I wanted to touch his bicep and see if it was as hard as it looked, and for some reason, I found myself tracing with my fingers the lines that drew a small statue of liberty. "What are you basing that on?" his bicep tensed when I moved to a tattoo closer to the sleeve of his shirt: a deck of cards "You don't know anything about me."

Things would have been different if you would have tell me that you don't remember your collage days. He clutched on the glass and broke it into pieces. He was not in his right senses. He took the piece of glass and started carving on his arm. 'I can't imagine myself without you... I never stopped loving you. It was just a blind anger. I am sorry... Please come back. You can't leave me like this. You were the only one for me and no one can take your place in my heart...' He carved her name and drenched himself in his own blood.

he takes my face in his hand and kisses me. Fuck his lips are so soft against mine. it feels like heaven. I should stop him, shout at him my mind is screaming telling me to stop him, but my heart says no just live the moment. we pull away to breathe. we are looking into each other eyes "I'm not going to see you again. right?"

5 G lateral at the top, the blood pooling in the wrong chambers, the arrhythmia that could be triggered by exactly this stress, in exactly this body, his body, Arthie's damaged heart. He had watched Eau Rouge on screens for years, the analysis that was professional interest in extreme physiology, the fascination that was abstract because the drivers were abstract, statistics, probabilities. Now he watched it through the window, the track visible below, the cars that were specks becoming violence becoming beauty, and the speck that was Arthie was specific, particular, the damage that was his to know intimately, to monitor continuously, to fear particularly.

They did not seem to see the black puddle spreading across the wood. "Student Benson?" the lead doctor asked. She had glasses and a cold voice. "We are waiting for your answer. How do you treat a heart that's under too much pressure?" Maya felt a hand squeeze hers. It was warm and rough. It was the hand of a man who worked with tools and oil. She looked to her left. The chair was empty. Benson was gone. The invisible friend who had given her strength a second ago had vanished. Now there was a cold wind in the room.