Chapter Hundred and Twenty
"Markus…" Her voice was soft, strangled. Too soft.
His eyes darted to her body in his arms. Matilda lay sprawled on the glossy café floor, her legs folded awkwardly beneath her, crimson staining the sleeve of her blue dress.
Blood. Too many of them.
Her blood soaked into the floor beneath her like ink from a spilled bottle, spreading and pooling.
"Matilda!" he was already moving.
Her skin was getting cold, and clammy.
"It… it hurts," she whimpered again, her voice shaky, barely above a breath. "So much…"
"I know," he breathed, voice hoarse with disbelief. "I know, just, just hang in there, alright? You are going to be fine. You are going to be okay."
She winced as he adjusted her, pressing his palm over the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers.
"Don't… don't let me die on my birthday," she whispered, half a plea, half a joke but her lips were trembling, and her eyelids were fluttering.
