Black Knight (Royal Elite #4) by Rina Kent

So much fucking blood.

Kimberly sits on the floor beside the toilet, her back leaning against the wall, and she’s surrounded by bags of crisps, pills, and a bottle of alcohol.

Her head lolls at an awkward angle and her green strands half-camouflage her expression.

My eyes go straight to the trail of blood soaking her cat pyjamas and the tiles beneath her.

So much fucking blood.

One of her hands holds a blade and her previously scarred wrist is now cut open, oozing blood all over the white tiles.

I run towards her, cursing out loud like a lunatic and grab towels on the way.

The first towel soaks immediately after I wrap it, so I add another one. Then something glints in her cut hand.

A bloodied bracelet dangles from her fingers.

I almost break at the view. It’s the bracelet I gave her for her eleventh birthday. The last gift I ever gave her, which I thought she threw away.

I push that thought out of the present and place two fingers on the pulse point in her neck while keeping pressure on her wrist.

The waiting time is probably seconds, but it feels like centuries. The more she doesn’t show any sign of life, the more I stop breathing altogether.

“Come on, Green.” My voice is hoarse with the pent-up emotions swirling inside me.

My grip tightens around her wrist as I lean my forehead against hers. “Don’t go, please. I’ll be the one to go, I promise.”

The moment her pulse thumps under my thumb, I release a long breath. It’s as if I’m coming from the dark, suffocating underground.

Her pulse is weak and barely there, but it exists.

I bandage one more towel around her wrist, keeping the pressure as I dial 999.

From here on, there are only two options. Either she lives or I don’t.





21





Kimberly





Numb.

That’s the only feeling that remains in my head as I slowly open my eyes.

It’s something strange. Being numb, I mean.

There’s nothing in there. No emotions. No thoughts. And most of all, no pain.

It’s like a blank canvas.

I always loathed blank canvases when Mum brought them over. At least she paid them attention and made them pieces of art.

People think the ‘nothing’ state of mind is the best to have.

It’s not.

Slowly, that nothingness morphs into irrevocable darkness that you can never escape.

A fog. A numbness.

While I never had Mum’s artistic streak, I always wanted someone to touch my blank canvas, paint on it, somehow revive it.

Make it a piece of art.

Slowly, too slowly, my surroundings register. The white walls and the bleach. The unfamiliarity and then…the familiarity itself.

The hospital.

I’m at the hospital because I cut myself. This time, I went in too deep that I had to be admitted. This time, I don’t have to google ways to stop the bleeding or hide the scars.

That’s when the most dooming realisation hits me.

I’m not dead.

A tear slides down my cheek as I soak in that reality, in the fact that I went all the way but still couldn’t die.

How could I be a failure even in death?

I’m still breathing, and the fog will soon cover my senses and envelop me in its tight embrace, and this time, it’ll never let me go.

The pain will be tenfold worse.

The harshness will be a hundred times crueller.

The reality will be so much more brutal.

Then that ‘something’ will attack me and I’ll find no reprieve from it.

Who found me? Why did they do it? Should I be thankful? Mad?

“Angel?”

My muscles lock at Dad’s voice.

No, not him.

Please, not Dad.

I don’t want him to see me this way. Why did he come back?

Facing away, I screw my eyes shut so tight, hoping against hope that he’ll think I went back to sleep and leave.

Just leave, Daddy. Don’t look at what I’ve become.

Big hands wrap around mine and I nearly lose the fight against the overwhelming emotions whirling inside me.

“Angel, please look at me. It’s Daddy.”

“It’s because you’re Daddy that I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I’ll never hate you, Kimberly.” His voice turns non-negotiable. “Never, do you hear me?”

My lids slowly open and I take him in, sitting by my bedside, holding my bandaged hand so softly, as if it’ll break any second.

Dad, Calvin Reed, is a clean-cut man in his mid-forties. A slight stubble covers his sharp jaw. He has a strong, tall build that gives him so much charisma and power. His blond-chestnut hair is always styled and perfected, his suits are tailored for him and him alone.

Dad and Mum are dubbed as one of most beautiful couples in the media, and while Kir fits in that picture-perfect family, I never have.

Right now, Dad isn’t in his usual impeccable attire. His hair sticks out as if he’s been running his fingers through it. His tie is gone and the first buttons of his shirt are undone. Black circles surround his eyes as a reminder that I disturbed his life.

“Did you have to take a night flight because of me?” I whisper, my voice spooked.

“I’d take a million flights because of you.” He reaches a hand to loosen his tie, then realises it’s not there and lets his arm drop to his side. “You’re not a burden, Angel. You’re my only daughter. I know I’ve been a failure, but I’ll work harder for you – for us and our family. I just need you to talk to me.”