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Not only was he an entitled, fragile man-child, but he was a fucking idiot as well.
‘What should I call you, Wildfire?’ The word slipped from his lips before he’d even thought it, for that was what the woman was – a living flame, both in her violent actions and the streaks of red through her burnt-umber hair.
‘She was trying to kill you.’ ‘Some of the best sex starts that way, my young apprentice.’
‘I hope she sticks a knife in your back.’ ‘With a face like that, I might just let her.’
‘Warswords are not born. They’re forged with blood and steel,’
Smiling, he offered it to her – the heart of a wraith. ‘I considered flowers, but I thought you’d like this more…’
‘If you need words of comfort, perhaps remember this: there are all kinds of darkness in this world. Some good, some bad, and some with no
agenda at all. It’s what that darkness means to you and what you do with it yourself that matters most.’
‘Touch her again,’ he said, leaning in, crushing Coltan to the wall behind him, ensuring the punishing grip mirrored his words. ‘And you die.’
‘There are many things I don’t do that I would gladly do for you,’ he murmured.
Love didn’t happen once, she realised. It happened every day, in little moments, in the quiet gaps between grand words, in the lingering touches, in the hope it promised in the dark. Love was something that breathed and expanded, that was made and remade, again and again, reforged only to become stronger.
