There is a desire in my gut that’s been pooling there since the moment I laid eyes on Coraline. It’s a violent fire that staggers and groans, writhes beneath the earth like it does beneath my skin. It’s completely unexpected and overwhelming, like it can’t get enough of itself. It bleeds and spreads from contact. It’s the death of the sun, replaced by the flecks of gold in her eyes. “You’re my wife, Coraline Hawthorne. If I want to cover myself in the blood of a thousand more men to protect you, I will,” I tell her. “They cannot hurt you without having to answer to me.”
