Heart of Stone - Stone and Fire #1 [17+] (REWRITING)

Chapter 37

hey fine shyts 😉😉😜

unfortunately that energy will NOT be matching today's chapter

Adriana's POV

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"Ten lacerations on the thoracic region, twenty superficial abrasions to the dermis... her estimated blood loss exceeds normal parameters. She needs a transfusion or there's a risk of tetanus."

"My blood. Use it."

"Boss. She isn't-"

"Use my goddamn blood, Diamo."

Blood.

How much more blood?

And then, pain.

━━━━━━━━ ༺♡༻ ━━━━━━━━

Cold.

So cold.

My eyes cracked open, taking in a dim, muted world, blurry at the edges. The sharp clinical lights of the hospital were gone, replaced by the dim, familiar warmth of Nikolas's bathroom.

Huh?

The sterile sting, the low murmur of doctors—it was gone. I'd either dreamed it out of some twisted hope, or passed out long enough for Nikolas to bring me here.

Cold marble pressed unforgivingly against my legs, grounding me in a physical way that only emphasized the numbing pain scattered across my skin. The wounds had stopped bleeding but now stung with an amplified fury, each cut like fire and ice at once. The pain crawled up every inch of my body, marinated and simmering in ways I couldn't have imagined back in that first wave of adrenaline. I could feel every place my skin had been sliced open, a thousand tiny pinpricks of fresh, relentless agony.

I barely remembered what it felt like not to hurt.

The cut slashed across my neck was the worst. Like a inked, deep-seated desperation, clawing for me to just tilt my head back with the right amount of force, rip the stitches open, and rip my head clean off.

I debated it at one point.

But, I realized, it would mess up Nikolas's clean bathroom, and I didn't want to make it any worse for him.

That word anchored me in the haze, a name so deep in my consciousness it barely required thought.

"Nikolas," I whispered, my voice thin and unfamiliar. It seemed to dissipate in the air before it even reached him.

But I'd only said it to remind myself, because he was right there. In front of me.

"Arms up."

I lifted them, almost robotically, and he pulled the shirt over my head.

The movement burned every single inch of skin, fire scorching up my sides, down my spine. The thin fabric peeled away, scraping over cuts I didn't even know existed until the pain flared, raw and unfiltered.

I'd been stitched up, all the deep cuts sealed, but the small ones remained open, scabbed over and blinking like a red light.

It was everywhere now. The pain was the one thing holding me in place, reminding me I was still here. He paused, his gaze dark and steady, lingering over every bruise, every line of fresh blood weaving down my skin. For a second, I thought I saw his hands tremble, just barely, before he guided them to my waist.