Bloody Fingers Book Novels & Stories

Her fingers— slender and greasy, beautified in a way that just a stare at her glowing hands, one would be intrigued. There was a book—a brown and neat paperback that was opened at about the eleventh page out of a hundred. Little by little, her index finger tapped on words that piqued her fancy, her breathtaking giggles followed along. [With you, there is light. But without you, a fate greater than death crashes upon my soul.]

"We need to get you to a hospital." "No," I grabbed his arm, a new, icy resolve hardening inside me. "Vincent will find out. Stick to the plan. The death has to be real." "But, Miss, your condition..." “The blood?” I forced myself to sit up, a grim smile touching my lips. “It just makes the story more convincing. We do it now.” With my last ounce of strength, I smeared more blood on the sheets. Then I opened the safe and took out the divorce papers I'd prepared.

I let out an exasperated groan. "Why bother hiding all of this..." I muttered. "...when there's nothing here?" As I snapped the book shut, the edge of a page sliced across the tip of my finger. "Ow." I looked down just in time to see a bead of crimson welling from the tiny cut. Before I could wipe it away, the droplet fell onto the open page. My breath caught. The blood didn't soak into the paper. It spread. Like a spider's web. I watched, transfixed, as the crimson veins crept across the parchment before falling still.

I screamed instinctively, throwing my hands over my face as shards scattered across the floor. When everything finally became still, I slowly lowered my arms. Arden hadn't moved. He stood perfectly frozen. Horror covered his face. "I didn't..." His voice shook. "I didn't mean..." A sharp pain twisted suddenly beneath my ribs. I sucked in a breath. Something burned inside my chest. "Elana?" I tried answering but instead, a violent cough tore through me. Once. Twice. The third time, warmth spilled across my lips and when I looked down, bright red blood stained my trembling hand.

I asked, tilting my head to see if the thorns had pierced his skin. My eyes widened when I saw blood gushing out of his fingers. "Oh no!" I felt sick watching his blood. He was clenching the rose with his bloody hand. I quickly put the book and sample herbs on the ground and grabbed his hand. "You are bleeding!" He tried to yank his hand. "That's nothing." I tightened my grip and looked at him. "Stop pretending like nothing hurts you." He seemed to be frozen by my words. I unclenched his fingers and saw his bloody fingers and palm. The thorns were really sharp.

With my trembling hands, I grabbed the handle of the door, and it had just opened when Bell's scream froze us. I furrowed my eyebrows and turned back only to see her pale face with widened eyes. She covered her mouth with her hands and panicked. We followed her gaze and stared at the sink. The sight I saw sent chills down my spine. Blood was flowing instead of water from the tap, which had blown us all away. I choked in the air as she showed us the blood across her lips. "I told you, Bell. But still, you didn't listen to me."

The marsh beyond the hollow walls stirred as if holding its breath. She felt everything. Rowan’s fury. Lucien’s hunger. Her own rising storm. She lifted her hands—fire and frost blazing in perfect symmetry. The marsh answered. Roots erupted through the floor in long, twisting spears. Fire burst from her palms in a column of gold, but frost intertwined with it—blue-white veins snapping through the flames like ice lightning. Wolves howled as frost sealed their paws to the stone, while the fire seared the air around them.

I never wore them here. I opened the book at random. Words blurred. It didn't matter. My right hand slipped between my legs before the first sentence ended. Fingers found my clít. Already swollen. Already slick. I rubbed fast. Circles. Up and down. Pressure hard enough to make my breath hitch.

Five spots of blue at the tips of her long fingers. He caught her scent. The smell of curdled blood and sick flesh. The stench of crumbling teeth and a bladder that leaked sour piss. The skin on her fingers had shrunk to the bone, the knuckles round and swollen. And her body was turning white, too white, and looked cold. Every breath from her made his eyes water and his stomach jump.

Wiped my face. “You’re being very brave,” he murmured. “But brave and foolish live next door to each other.” When he stood, I saw blood on his gloves—my blood. Splattered on the floor, down my arm, sticky and red. My fingers looked mutilated. Bare. Wrong. I choked on something, the bile in my throat almost forcing its way up. “Let’s try the right hand.” “No.” My voice was barely there. He didn’t stop. After the fifth nail, I blacked out.