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“I think you care very little,” she goes on, “because you think that keeps you safe. If you care for very little, you have very little to lose.” A knot forms between my shoulder blades, making me shift again. “But you know what?” Smee says. “Caring for so little means that when you actually do care, losing it has a much higher cost.”
I’m no artist, but I’m an expert at violence and I will paint a fucking masterpiece with your blood.”
Vane sits up behind me, presses the warmth of his chest against me. “You’re all right, Win.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
It may not be blunt. It may not even be obvious. But one way or another, she will divide us and we will all risk losing Darling. And if that fairy lays a hand on Win, I swear to fucking god—”
“My granddad used to say that bad weather was god trying to tell us something.” “And what do you think he’s trying to tell us?” “That we’re fucked.”
No one is shouting, but I get the distinct impression everyone is silently screaming.
It’s telling, the words a person uses when they speak sharp things.
It takes just one decision. It may seem small at the time or inconsequential. But that one small decision can change the course of everything.
“Because calling me Win is something the rest of them don’t.”
“You were the only one to ever use my name like you meant it.”
I’m tiny in his grip, but I’ve never felt so damn safe. And a flame of grief catches me off guard as my brain goes to flight mode. It says, You can’t have anything good. And even if you do, it won’t last. This will end. He will see through you. They all will and you’ll wake up one day and realize you’re alone again. “I got you, Win,” Vane says, and I know he’s tapped into that grief, can feel the gnarled hands of it. “You don’t have to save me.”
In one fluid motion, he rips off my shirt, wraps his hand around my throat, and drives me down on the table.
My breathing quickens. “Fuck me, Vane. Hard.” “It’s cute that you think you can tell me what to do.”
“There was a time I wanted you to run faster, so you could escape me.” I stroke him. He growls. “But I don’t think there was any stretch of land vast enough that would have stopped me.”
We are fire and debris from lives lived broken and terrified. We fuck like love is a salve we are terrified of using up. We fuck like there is only now.
