Stitch X Novels & Stories

Whatever you do, do NOT pass out! Squeezing the jagged cut together the best I can with one trembling hand while trying to adhere the butterfly stitch proves to be nearly impossible and agonizing. Sweat beads across my brow as I carefully placed the last strip of a butterfly stitch over the seam of the bloody wound. It's still bleeding a little, but no longer gaping open on the side of my arm.

At the specific careful work of the preliminary drape. At the commission brief. *The person I actually am.* "Tainted," I said. "Yes," Marisol said. "Hidden Stitch," I said. "Which I built from a needle and a spool of thread in a basement apartment in Philadelphia while raising a child alone." I paused. "Which existed for three years before anyone connected it to Adrian Wolfe." I paused again. "Which has been making things for people who wanted the person they actually were." I looked at the fabric. "Tainted."

My gut was telling me now was not the time to ask questions, so I listened to it. The cut was deep, so I applied some antibiotic cream and then a patented liquid adhesive meant for shifters to hold the sides together. It was formulated by Doc to replace stitches entirely for our patrol units. I doubted Emma would want to go for stitches if she was this hesitant to even let me help out.

When we arrive home, everyone hurries in. "Bring him to my room, Mom." I say, guiding her upstairs with Jaxon. I get a first aid kit as mom sits Jaxon on the bed. I walk back over to him and I remove the shirt mom has over the stab wound. "It's pretty deep. I know how much you hate needles but I have to stitch it, Jax." I say. He nods his head, beads of sweat dripping down his face. I thread the needle and Jaxon sits through the stitching like a champ, laughing and talking through it all. After I'm finished patching him up, I bring him downstairs and I hug both my brothers goodbye.

"A standard stitch will tear under pressure. We need a reinforced double-layer patch." "Understood, Chief," Sarah replied, her hands steady as she handed over the specialized synthetic patch. The minutes ticked by in complete focus. Outside, the morning sun rose higher, casting bright light through the high frosted windows of the surgical wing. Every stitch Vivian placed was a testament to decades of rigorous training, her father's brilliant teachings, and her own unyielding commitment to saving lives. At nine-forty-five AM, Vivian placed the final delicate suture.

The future she was sewing together, one careful stitch at a time. Made once, kept being made.

Barely noticeable—unless you knew where to look. There, in the left shoulder seam of the gown, a double stitch had been drawn. Two tiny, purposeful dashes. She hadn’t included that in the original sketch. It was something her mentor used to mark as a hidden sign of tailored armour—a metaphor. Invisible from the front, but strong enough to hold the entire structure. Her mentor used to call it *the ghost stitch*. Ximena felt her blood still. Only two people knew about that symbol: her, and— No.

He didn't miss the thick drop of a tear that silently collapsed out of her eye, right on his chest before trickling down on his abdomen. She was quick in her movements, disinfecting the wound before stitching it to the best of her capabilities. He was the best patient she could ask for, compliant and silent, letting her do as she wished. When she was satisfied with her job that she had pulled impossibly faster, she sighed, yet again meeting his miserable eyes.

But in the meantime, I would do as I was asked and keep my mouth shut. "Good morning, team," Madoc said. "Before you go off on your mission, we're going to play a little game to make sure everyone is fully prepared. It's called, 'Tell Me What Your Job is When I Point to You, or I'll Suck Your Blood.'" There were confused looks all around. "Kidding! Jeez, Lighten up. Anyway…go." He pointed at Stitch first. "Crowd control, guarding the front entrance and getting key cards to the others." For the last three weeks, Stitch had been undercover. He'd gotten hired at Mega Mart as an entrance greeter.

“Do you want him to live?” Camela took too long to respond. The Bride lowered her voice. “Because if you do…the stitches must be in place before the next moonrise.” “Stitches?” Camela's voice trembled. The Bride pointed at the mannequin. “The dress is stitched with threads pulled from promises, and you, my dear, have made quite a few of those.” Camela felt a tightness in her chest again, as the intense heat from the seal within her pulsed hard, almost painfully.