Wounded Waters Bleeding Novels & Stories

Instead of the ice hitting Jim's chest, the spike only hit his shoulder but enough to make him scream in agony. Red crimson fluid immediately streamed out from Jim's impaled wound and fell like cherry red raindrops to the clear crystal floor, staining such vivid glass. Jim then stepped backward to remove his shoulder from the ice spike and he stood up grunting in pain. Blood is still flowing from the wound to his arm and continuously drop to the icy floor creating a mini pool of roses. While Mayari stared at him with unseen lament and irritation for not being able to kill him. His bloody scream didn't satisfy her one bit.

Alpha Bronx growls. My back is starting to feel wet. Oh crap, I'm bleeding a lot now. When he pushed me against the door, it pulled open most of the unhealed lash wounds. Now the initial adrenaline is wearing off and my back is starting to sting. The door behind my back feels slick. I try not to whimper. I don't want to show that I'm weak. I don't want him to murder me when I just found him. Who am I kidding? There's no way he doesn't already know I'm a wimp. "Kas, I can't heal you fast enough. Hang in there! The scars make it harder. I'm trying but I feel so weak! We are losing too much blood." Lex whimpers. She sounds far away.

I lay in a mangled heap and grasp for air, mouth opening and body trying, but I’m like a fish out of water. Unable to do anything at all except whine under my breath, and claw weakly at the dirt around me, trying like crazy to inflate my lungs even an inch. My shoulder’s wet from a severe set of puncture wounds that extend up onto the side of my neck, and I know it’s probably my jugular that’s making the flow so intense. The throbbing coming from there, in time to my low and weak heartbeat, pulsing out my blood with every thud.

Her hands clenched around the razor, the metal cool against her trembling fingers as she steeled herself for what she knew must come next. With a deep breath, Emily pressed the blade against her wrist, the metal biting into her flesh with almost clinical precision. The pain was sharp and immediate, a searing reminder of the finality of her actions as crimson blood welled up from the wound, staining the water around her in patterns of red.

I was about moving my feet from the pool of blood it is soaked in when I felt it, a sharp tear in my back Wesh. Fuck!!, I hate getting sketches, the mother-fucking Eme it takes to heal sketches equals another bed rest, worst nightmare. An axe is being shoved into my back, pretty sure I will be having splitted bones by now, my eyes are getting blurry, oh yes, as a result of too many bloods loss, you tend to lose your vision. I vaguely saw an image of smoke holding something sharp and running towards me before a sharp needle pierced him and the image collapsed cold on the floor.

Her wound pulsed dully but had stopped bleeding thanks to the yarrow. She dragged herself toward the sound of trickling water and found a narrow stream winding through the underbrush. Kneeling, she cupped her hands and drank deeply, the cold liquid soothing her parched throat. She splashed her face, letting the shock of it drive away the fog of exhaustion.

The sight of her blood, dark and bright, flowing across her skin, hits me like a direct blow to the chest. Breaking through the protective barrier formed by my soldiers, I rush toward her with a heavy heart and a mind in despair. The dry leaves crunch under my feet, and each step feels like a monumental effort. I kneel beside Aria, feeling the coldness of her skin under my hands as I press down on the wound, trying to stop the blood from continuing to spill. But it’s futile. The blood slips through my fingers, warm and viscous, as if her life is slipping through my hands.

They looked more like claws than fingers. I stared at them for a moment, then dragged one lightly across my arm. The skin opened as easily as paper. Blood ran down, dripping into the creek. Where it touched the water, the murky color began to fade, as if the current were being washed clean. I stepped forward, wading deeper, moving faster and frantically. I cut my other arm, then my shoulder, watching the dark water grow clearer with every drop that fell from me. But it still wasn’t enough.

Rocks jutted out along the bank, smooth and dark, slick with the flow. Laura lowered Damian gently on a flat stone near the edge. His breathing had brown shallower, his skin pale under the pale twilight glow. “Let me see it,” she said quietly. When he didn’t protest, she lifted the edge of his torn shirt. Her stomach tightened. The wound was getting bigger, dark blood seeped through, edged with faint black veins that pulsed faintly, like the echo of whatever cursed blade had cut him. “Hold still.” She whispered. She scooped water from the river and let it spill gently across the wound. Damian hissed, muscles tensing, his hand gripping the stone beneath him till his knuckles turned white.

I nodded and once we got to the room, I hurried up to the cupboards that had medical tools they used at the border to treat injured warriors. "Is there anything else you need?" Alaric asked as I poured alcohol to disinfect my hands. The warrior was indeed bleeding too much. He wasn't healing, which meant that the rogue bit him to kill him, not to infect him. They were already trying to control the bleeding before we got here, but it wasn't working as much as I wanted. The warrior kept screaming in agonizing pain.