Seven Years Of Blood Novel by Astra Marlowe _ Novel




Seven Years Of Blood Chapter 01

Gwendolyn's POV
Everyone in New York knew General Tyrone Sheffield. He was a war hero. A killer. He didn't care about fancy parties or rich girls. He only wanted me. I was the "sick girl" who lived on a diet of pills.
This morning, I woke up with the taste of blood in my mouth again.
As I pushed myself up in bed. My nightgown slipped. My arm was covered in needle marks. It looked like a roadmap of bruises. The skin there was heavily bruised, a messy canvas of fading old scars and fresh punctures.
I made my way down the hall to the study. Just as I raised my hand to knock, I heard voices inside.
"The medication is ready," Tyrone said, his tone unusually urgent.
"Give her the injection tomorrow."
"General, this drug is dangerous," the doctor whispered. "It could kill her. Her brain could fry. Her organs could shut down."
"Are you absolutely sure you don't want to wait for the clinical data?"
"I don't care," Tyrone snapped.
"Liddy is dying. She needs it now."
Liddy? Lydia Brampton?
My half-sister?
I stood frozen outside. My fingertips brushed the cold doorframe before I slowly pulled my hand away.
"I understand," the doctor sighed.
"But Ms. Wilford's system is now severely compromised, after seven years of extensive serum extraction. If we administer the drug now—"
"That’s why I kept her around for seven years," Tyrone’s voice was cold as ice. "She has one job: to keep Liddy alive. She’s nothing but a walking blood bank."
A sudden flash of white blinded me, and a deafening ring pierced my ears.
I thought about the "supplements" I'd swallowed year after year, the endless prescriptions that left me so drained I could barely walk across a room without gasping for air.
I thought I was born weak. I thought Tyrone was my hero. I thought he saved me. Defying his family's fierce objections, he married me, took care of me, and treated me like I was precious.
Once, he went into an active combat zone alone just to secure an antibody for me, coming back covered in severe burns.
He'd spent three years undercover in a foreign syndicate to get his hands on my experimental treatment protocol.
To keep me safe, he even swallowed his pride and begged his political rivals for the final chemical agent I needed.
People called him an idiot. They mocked him for going to hell and back for a woman destined to die young.
He took all their criticism in silence.
Back then, I thought that meant he loved me.
Following everything he went through, Tyrone developed PTSD and a dissociative disorder.
His primary personality was gentle and attentive, anticipating my every need, while his alternate personality was ice-cold and violent, acting like I didn't even exist.
On so many nights, he would pull me into his arms, his voice rough. "Gwen, only your blood can stop my violent impulses."
I was so stupid.
I gave him my arm every time. I watched my own blood fill the bags, thinking I was saving him. It was all a lie.
It hurt, but I thought keeping him sane was worth the pain.
But it had all been a lie.
I slowly gripped the hem of my nightgown, my chest seizing tight with an overwhelming grief.
Cold air blasted from the vent above, making my entire body shiver.
Disoriented, I looked down the empty hallway. I thought of my cousin, Harold Preston. He was the one person who had always looked out for me since we were kids.
I turned to leave and go find him—but then Harold's own voice rang out from inside the study, sharp and impatient. "So, when are you marrying Liddy?"
I froze.
"Liddy has suffered from a rare disease since she was a kid, and only a close relative's blood can treat it," Harold said, his voice dropping lower.
"You ruined Gwen’s name just to keep her trapped. Everyone sees her as a disgraced, chronically ill woman with nowhere to go and absolutely no one to rely on.
"Now that Liddy is better, throw that trash away."
Outside the door, I stood paralyzed in shock.
They were the ones who destroyed my reputation, too?
The silence stretched out before Tyrone finally spoke, his voice flat. "Harold, she's your cousin. Do you really not care about her at all?"
Harold scoffed. "Cousin?
"Listen, Liddy's my whole world; nobody else comes close. I'd die for her—let alone sacrifice a cousin who means nothing to me."
My blood ran cold.
"Besides," Harold added, his voice dropping into a hostile growl, "she mistreated Liddy. Or did you forget? She publicly humiliated Liddy for being born out of wedlock. I'm going to make her pay for that alone."
He paused, and I could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
"When we’re done with her, dump her in a slum brothel. Let her use that pretty face to make some real money."
The world spun before my eyes.
I thought back to when I was seven. I'd scraped my knee, and Harold had carried me on his back across the entire neighborhood for treatment.
When I was ten, some kids made fun of me for not having a mom, and Harold fought those bullies until they were black and blue.
The night before I moved into the Sheffield's mansion, he held my hand and told me, "Gwen, I'll always protect you."
He lied. They all lied. No one loved me. Not my husband. Not my family. I was alone.
Not my dad, not my cousin, and certainly not Tyrone.
I stumbled back to my room and dug the electronic distress whistle out from under my pillow.
Three days ago, I'd saved Keaton Ashton. Right before he left, he'd pressed this little device into my hand. "If you're ever out of options, press it," he'd told me. "Someone will come for you. I'll do whatever you ask."
I pressed the button.
Beep.
A sharp electronic beep pierced the quiet.
One second of silence.
Then—BAM.
Someone kicked the front door off its hinges.

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