The Blood that Binds (Thicker than Blood Book 3)

by Madeline Sheehan

  “Fuck,” I muttered, slamming the door closed and quickly locking it. My heart hammering in my chest, I dropped everything I was carrying and ran back up the stairs, reclaiming the ax from my room. I was halfway down the stairs when an angry thud echoed through the building, followed closely by several more. I closed my eyes as my heart rate continued to climb; the infected had found its way onto the porch and was throwing itself against the sliding doors. I had no idea how long those doors would hold, but I couldn’t imagine it being very long.

  Shrugging into my coat, knowing what I would have to do, my stomach roiled with nerves.

  Ax in hand, I left the house via the front door, circling quickly around the side. The snow crunched loudly beneath my boots, alerting the infected to my presence. Swinging around, it jolted forward, stumbling down the steps. Jaw snapping, eyes milky yet focused, it lifted up its arms, reaching for me.

  My mouth fell open, my hand fell limply to my side, almost losing my grip on the ax.

  Mackenzie’s long blonde hair was streaked with black, large clumps of it having been ripped straight from her scalp. There were more wounds; she appeared to have been partially eaten before turning herself. Her mouth opened and closed, low, guttural groans erupting from within.

  “No,” I whispered, backing away. “No, no, no… ”

  Mackenzie continued to gain on me until she was close enough that I could smell the rot—a musty, heavy smell that surrounded her. I pushed her back with the end of the ax, suddenly unable to wield it. She wasn’t the first infected I’d seen—we’d all seen them on the news, on YouTube, and eventually in our own town, too. But our town was small and had cleared out pretty quickly once supplies had begun to dwindle. Occasionally, whenever an infected had been spotted nearby, the adults had always taken care of it.

  You’re the adult now, I reminded myself. Protecting Lucas and Willow is your job now.

  Several minutes passed before I’d convinced myself to do it—to kill my girlfriend. I readied myself, and held my breath as I swung, flinching at the last second and sending the sharpened edge of the ax into her neck instead of her skull. Her head canted to one side, the wound exposing the rotten tendons and muscle there, and still she continued coming for me, utterly unfazed.

  This time, I swung the ax like a bat, hitting her hard enough that she toppled over, and then I swung again, lodging the blade in the top of her skull. It stuck there, forcing me to step on her face in order to pull it free.

  She still wasn’t dead—her mouth continued to open and close, her eyes still blinked.

  I wanted to run and hide. I wanted to scream and rail against the unfairness of it all. But most of all I wanted someone else to do what needed to be done.

  Instead, I swung. I swung until she was no longer moving, no longer recognizable. Just a pile of death at my feet. And then I ran back inside the house, just barely managing to shut and lock the door before I crumbled to the floor and remained there, staring in horror at the gore covering my boots.

  “W-what happened?” Willow stood off to the side of the entryway, a blanket wrapped tightly around her.

  I blinked up at her, feeling dizzy and disorientated. “This is so fucked,” I whispered, banging my head back against the wall. “This is all so fucked—I feel like I’m going insane. How is this real?”

  Still banging my head against the wall, I continued speaking frantically, verging on hysteria. “How is any of this real? I feel like—I feel like—”

  With a silent roar, I burst up onto my feet and swung my fist into the wall, over and over again. Plaster cracked and caved in, wallpaper ripped, and yet I continued to strike, hoping that with each blow some of the tension, some of the frustration, some of the aching, some of the completely fucked-up feelings building inside of me would start to ease. It wasn’t the case; the shitty feelings only continued to grow, growing until I was rapidly pummeling the wall with both hands. We were going to die here—the world was picking us off handfuls at a time—and I was helpless to stop it.

  “Logan.” Willow was grabbing at my arms, trying to pull me away. “Stop, you’re bleeding—stop it!” She slipped between me and the wall, shoving me away with what little strength she had. I grabbed her in surprise, gripping her arms and blinking down at her through blurry, waterlogged eyes.

  I was crying, I realized angrily. I was fucking crying, and in front of Willow, no less. I didn’t want to cry; I wanted to hit something. I wanted to hurt something. I wanted to feel something other than all this fucking madness swelling inside me.

  But I couldn’t hit Willow. The lone sliver of sanity that I still possessed realized that much.

  So I kissed her instead—I pushed her back against the ruined wall, covered her mouth with mine and kissed her like my life depended on it—which, in that one weak moment, it did.

  And when she kissed me back, fisting her hands in my shirt, matching my desperation with equal measure, I kept going, not thinking, just needing.

  Just needing to feel something—anything at all—that didn’t hurt.

  Still sitting on the bathroom floor, I was propped against the wall with Willow draped across my lap, having since cried herself to sleep. Looking down at her, I ran my knuckles lightly against the side of her face. We’d only been kids back then—terrified teenagers consumed with grief who’d had a horrible lapse in judgment. I’d never tried to justify it, not even to myself—there was no justifying a mistake of that caliber. I’d assumed Willow felt the same, and that was why we never spoke of it, and why we’d carried on like nothing had ever happened between us.

  But what had occurred tonight wasn’t the same.

  Tonight had been the culmination of feelings that had been building inside me for a hell of a long time, maybe even since the first time. There was no more denying what I felt for Willow. It was what Willow felt for me, or what she didn’t feel… that remained to be seen.

  With that in mind, I shifted to my feet, lifting Willow in my arms, and carried her to bed. As I slid in beside her, she turned toward me, curling her body around mine with a sigh. Staring down at her, I wished we could stay just like this—safely ensconced in the dead of night where I could touch her without her pushing me away, and where I could sleep beside her without worrying about what might change once the sun came up.

  Because, come morning would come reality—the reality was that I was in love with Willow, and Willow was still in love with my brother.

  Willow

  I awoke slowly, languidly stretching limbs still stiff with sleep. Skin brushed skin as I rolled into the wall of warm muscle nestled tightly beside me, nuzzling my face against it and sliding my fingers over it.

  I froze suddenly, my eyes flying open, my breath catching and evaporating. Staring at Logan’s chest, recalling every single sordid detail of the night before, I wondered frantically how I was going to avoid having to deal with what we’d done, but more pressing was how to avoid having to deal with Logan.

  While my thoughts spiraled into full-on panic mode and I contemplated making a screaming run for it, Logan sighed in his sleep, releasing me as he rolled away. I remained frozen for several seconds, making sure he was still asleep before rolling out of bed, grasping wildly for the clothing strewn all over my bed, and making a run for the bathroom, my footfalls softer and stealthier than ever before.

  Closing the door softly behind me, I collapsed against it, staring at my wild-eyed reflection in the mirror. I looked…

  Hand to my cheek, I pushed my heavy veil of hair away from my face and swallowed hard. My lids were heavy, my lips were swollen, and there was a small mark on my neck… and another one on my shoulder. Between my legs throbbed with the memory of the man who lay asleep just outside the door.

  A man who’d left me looking… and feeling… very well fucked.

  “Shit,” I spat softly, dropping my hand. Cursing, I dug through the clothing I’d gathered, relieved to find I’d grabbed everything I needed. Dressing quickly, I splashe
d some water over my face and turned to the door, my hand hovering over the knob as a fresh wave of panic gripped me. What if he was awake? What would I say? What could I say? I was fairly certain I was one thousand percent tongue-tied at the moment.

  Making up my mind to grab my boots and make a run for it, I twisted the knob slowly, careful that it didn’t as much as creak. Heart in my throat, I pushed the door open, nearly crumpling in relief to find Logan still facing away from me, still sleeping soundly. Snatching my boots off the floor, I fumbled briefly with the lock on the door and then I was pushing into the early morning, flying barefoot across grass still wet with dew. Forgoing the dining hall—I absolutely couldn’t face a single soul in my current state—I ran straight to work.

  Stab. Stab. Stab. Stabbing my trowel deep into the dirt, I worked furiously, breaking up a tightly compacted mound of mud and soil.

  Thrust. Thrust. Thrust. My hand slowed, my eyes closing, each stab deeper and harder than the last.

  I wanted to hate what had happened—at the very least, I wanted to forget it. But… there was no denying the growing throb between my legs, and the way my body kept flushing with heat. I hadn’t hated it—not even a little bit—and I definitely wouldn’t be forgetting it.

  “Willow? You okay, hun?”

  My eyes flew open. Cassie was working beside me, tending to the same mound of dirt. In the face of her scrutiny, I felt my flush deepen, wondering if she knew what I’d done last night—if she could tell just by looking at me.

  “I’m fine,” I muttered as I resumed stabbing the earth. “Hungover, I think.”

  It wasn’t too far from the truth—I’d definitely drank enough to still be feeling it this morning. At least, that’s what I was attempting to convince myself—that what had occurred between Logan and I had been the unfortunate result of too much whiskey and wine.

  Cassie placed a gloved hand on my arm. “Why don’t you clock out early and go get washed up? You’ve been working your tail off all morning, and I’m sure you want to be refreshed for Hank’s celebration.”

  During the breakfast I’d skipped, it had been announced that Hank had died yesterday morning, succumbing to injuries that had been too extensive for Doc to treat. He’d already been buried, taken to a small cemetery outside of camp, and a small celebration of his life would be held in the dining hall that evening for anyone who wished to attend.

  I hadn’t planned on attending; I hadn’t known Hank. Not that I could tell Cassie that while she was wiping a tear from her cheek.

  Sitting back on my heels, I swiped the sweat from my brow. “Yeah, okay, I could use a shower.” Maybe a shower would wash away the scent of Logan that still clung to my skin, and the memory of his hands on me.

  His hands cupping my face, squeezing my ass, gripping my thighs tight. I swallowed hard, nearly choking as a wave of need rolled hotly through me. The distant drumming of the dresser against the wall echoed in my thoughts, my mouth both drying and watering at the memory.

  Jumping up, I stormed from the garden, with every intention of heading to the Bath House, only… as I neared the heart of camp, I found myself walking in the opposite direction. Nervous anticipation shuddered through me as I approached the construction site. I spotted him immediately, fitting floorboards onto the base of a new addition. He was shirtless, his broad, tan back glistening beneath the hot sun.

  EJ noticed me first, nudging Logan. Glancing over his shoulder, Logan rose from kneeling, his low-slung jeans falling even lower on his hips. I sucked in a breath at the full sun-kissed length of him, another potent burst of desire shooting through me. I’d never felt like this before. I’d never felt such intense need before—it was as if a tap had burst inside of me.

  My heart pounding in my throat, I spun around and hurried down the path. Bursting inside the cabin, I pressed my back against the door and surveyed the room—surprised to find it clean. All that remained from the mess we’d made the night before was the lopsided dresser, one of its legs broken clean off.

  Breath after heady breath filled my lungs. Warmth pooled low in my belly, my every nerve lighting up in response to my thoughts. Slipping my hand between my thighs, I squeezed my legs together, whimpering as my desire intensified.

  There was a bang on the door; the wood pushed against my back. I jumped sideways, scrambling backward as Logan pushed inside, pausing in the threshold. Still shirtless, sweat shining from every rock-hard inch of him, intensity rolled off him in hot, heavy waves.

  We came together in a frenzy of reckless lips. Tongues tangling, teeth clashing, I jumped up into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist. While I roughly pawed at him and he fought to hold me, he stumbled sideways, crashing into the wall. Pinning me there, his hands explored my body, kneading my ass and groping my breasts. “Fuck,” he groaned against my mouth. “Fuck.”

  “Willow, darlin’,” Britta called out as the cabin door flung open. “You comin’ to Hank’s—oh shit, my bad.” The door slammed shut with her hurried departure.

  Like a burning branch plunged into ice water, my feet hit the floor with a gasp. “Stop,” I demanded, pushing at Logan. “Logan, stop!”

  Cursing, he backed quickly away, his hands going to his hair, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. I stared at him, breathing hard, guilt and desire fighting for supremacy.

  “We can’t,” I breathed. “We can’t do this.”

  “Too fucking late,” he ground out angrily. “We already did.”

  My eyes went wide. “Fuck you,” I spat, fumbling blindly for the door. Flinging it open, I dashed outside. “Britta, wait!”

  Racing down the path after Britta, my eyes were burning, my heart was pounding out of my chest. Oh god. What was I doing? And with Logan, of all people. Our relationship had always been shaky, volatile at best, held together only by our mutual love of Lucas—a love we’d both betrayed in the worst possible way. Again.

  Up ahead, Britta glanced over her shoulder. “Done already?” she asked as I fell in step beside her. “Didn’t take Eddie for the wham-bam, thank you, ma’am type.”

  “Don’t,” I whispered, grabbing her arm, pulling her to a stop. “Please don’t make jokes right now.”

  Britta’s expression pulled into a frown. “Oh, sugar, what’s the matter? Ain’t this what you wanted?”

  “No.” I shook my head vehemently. “Not with him. Never with him.”

  “Somethin’ wrong with Eddie… other than that stick up his ass?”

  “He’s Luke’s brother,” I said hoarsely. “And I love Luke.”

  “Sugar, Luke is gone,” she said with a sympathetic shrug. “He’s dead, and you and Eddie are still alive. We don’t stop livin’ when someone dies, do we?”

  My mouth worked soundlessly while I fumbled for a reply I couldn’t find.

  “What would Luke want?” she pressed. “Would he want y’all happy?”

  I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because I did.

  Throwing her arm over my shoulders, Britta tugged me forward. “Look at it this way,” she said. “Life has gotten mighty short these days, and it sure ain’t sweet. Take Hank, for example.” She shrugged again. “If you’re lucky enough to find somethin’ or someone that makes you feel good, then I say take it.”

  I stayed silent while we walked, wishing it were that simple. Of course, Luke would want me to be happy. He’d want Logan to be happy, too. But would he want us to be happy together? And what if it went wrong between Logan and me, which it undoubtedly would. What then?

  “Stop overthinkin’ it,” Britta said. “There ain’t much good left in the world so you gotta take what you can, when you can, and damn the consequences. And speakin’ of Hank, we got a celebration to be gettin’ to.”

  For the second time in two days, the occupants of Silver Lake gathered together at the dining hall in celebration. This time without fairy lights strung from the rafters, without music playing, or jugs of wine and elaborate platters of food
passed around. This was a different sort of gathering; the somber celebration of a man’s life cut short.

  Attendees sat in a makeshift circle at one end of the hall while, one by one, Hank’s friends took to the center of the circle to share funny stories involving Hank, and to express how much he would be missed.

  “He’s with his wife and kids now,” Davey said, concluding his speech. “His grandkids, too. He’s home.”

  As Davey stepped away, EJ took his place in the circle. “You remember that time the chickens escaped?” he said wistfully. “And Hank was chasing them through camp with his pants falling down?” As the group began to laugh, EJ started sniffling, quickly growing too choked up to continue.

  “Lord, that man is softer than warm butter.” Britta shook her head. “Lemme go rescue him” Sliding off the bench we were sharing, she hurried to lead EJ from the circle, taking his place.

  “Y’all recall when little Béla asked for a swing and Hank decided to take it upon himself to build one?”

  “That’s my swing!” From his seat on his mother’s lap, Béla clapped happily.

  “Yeah, darlin’, it’s your swing I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” Britta said. “But it weren’t always so great, ya know. Ol’ Hank had never built a swing before; he didn’t have a dang clue what he was doin’. Spent a full week puttin’ together some rickety lookin’ thing, actin’ all proud like he’d built himself a whole ass playground.”