Lyra’s hand moves, the tip of her finger drawing across my skin. When I glance down, I find her painting hearts with the blood that drips from her veins. Tiny bloody hearts. They connect and leak down my chest, drying in messy strokes. She’s covering me in them. Marking my skin with the proof of her obsession. And I let her because I’m tipsy. Blood drunk on a girl intent on loving me until it kills her. Until the grave. That’s what we are, have always been. The kind of connection that began in death and would last far beyond it. Such a very grim, morbid declaration of love. So very Lyra.
