First Cut Is The Deepest Novels & Stories

Then I lower the blade. Silently, tilting my head with fascination I watch as his pale skin quickly oozes ruby. It can’t just be a skin wound, I remind myself. I have to go deeper. I push a little further, the cut now two inches across his stomach. Breathing steadily, hypnotised by my act of highest treason I am lost, mesmerised by the blood. Don’t stop until it’s gushing, I remind myself. His wolf might be able to heal so we need to go deep-

Small, sharp, and gleaming under the stadium lights. My breath caught in my throat. The first strike came fast — a wild slash that grazed the skin of my arm, slicing through the fabric of my sleeve and leaving a thin, burning line of blood in its wake. I cried out, stumbling back, clutching my arm. The second strike came even faster, aimed straight for my throat. I ducked, barely in time, the blade whistling past my ear. “Stop!” I screamed, backing away, my voice cracking.

I felt the sharp, focused pain of the cut, the sudden warmth of my blood rising to the surface. I was trying hard to not give off any reaction from the sting. It was a monumental effort, a physical struggle against the most basic human reflex. The pain was real, immediate, but the fear of giving away the plot was greater. I clamped my teeth together, forcing the muscles in my face to remain slack, empty.

"And right before graduation, you had her final project deleted. Sharon Cartier missed out on an award because of it, and Leah got dragged into an empty classroom and had her hand broken." "Counting this time, that makes ninety-three. Just six more, and it'll be enough to put together a confession book for Vivi. She'll be moved to tears when she sees how dedicated you are!" A wave of nausea slammed into me. The love I thought was heaven-sent turned out to be nothing but cold, calculated revenge. I tried to leave, but my body—still weak from surgery—gave out, and I crashed to the floor. Pain ripped through me as the incision tore open, blood soaking my gown.

Rome coldly uttered, striking another punch that sent Rookie's head slamming against the wall again. "Stop, please!" Rookie begged, unable to open his eyes. At that moment, a memory crossed Rome's mind, and he could hear Mr. Ford tells his six years old self, "Giving your opponent a second chance is a weak choice. When you start the job, you finish it! That's the right way to do it!" As those words rang in Rome's head, he raised his fist. But at that exact moment, he experienced another flash of memory and heard Mr. Miller says, "Whenever you want to do something regretful, take in three deep breaths and then exhale slowly."

It burned under my touch, steady and deep. Four hundred years. I didn’t hear the person behind me. That was my first mistake. I was careless, half outside, door left unlocked after Zevran had gone, not even checking it. There was a sharp floorboard creak, and I started to turn, but not fast enough. The blade drove into my left side, right under the ribs. Short, angled up. It was a professional’s move, meant for puncture. First came the cold. That’s what nobody tells you about getting stabbed, the cold hits before the burn, racing through your body, like your blood’s trying to outrun the pain.

Stefano’s bloodshot, terrified eyes snap open. "You thought being good at manipulating numbers made you a god," I say, tracing the flat edge of the scalpel lightly over the knuckles of Stefano’s strapped-down right hand. "You thought you could calculate your way into an empire. But you don't understand the first thing about loyalty, Stefano. You don't understand what it means to belong to someone." Pressing the tip of the surgical steel into the flesh right below his wrist, I make the first cut. The skin parts effortlessly. Stefano screams again, a raw, ragged sound, as I drag the blade slowly and methodically downward toward his knuckles.

“Perfect," He moved first. His first strike wasn't some wild, angry slash; it was a cold, precise thrust aimed straight for my heart. I barely got my blade up in time to parry, the impact jolting down my arm like a lightning strike. He didn't pause to admire the block. He flowed right into a second strike, then a third, launching a relentless barrage of blows that drove me back step by step.

Kaden asked, as he reached for the knife from the elder. I shook my head quickly. “No. I want to go first.” He raised a brow, probably surprised, but didn’t say anything. He handed the knife to me and held out his palm. I looked at his hand, held the knife tightly, and without thinking twice, I made the cut. It wasn’t a soft cut and I pressed harder than I needed to. The knife sliced deep into his skin, and I saw his hand twitch in pain. He gritted his teeth as the blood quickly flowed from the cut.

Women he wants to cage. They are a set sequence of acts that, once completed, mean the woman is his. And he already started it with her. Fuck. The Break... The first fuck. It's usually brutal and merciless, designed to make her body remember him in ways she’ll never erase. Jesus. The Blade… First blood. It doesn’t matter how small. Doesn’t matter where. As long as she bleeds for him.