The tightness in my chest promised implacable pain, but I didn’t care. I wanted this. Needed it. Even at the risk that he’d cast me aside too. And I hated myself for that. Hated that I was so hungry for passion, starving for the need to feel so much at once, that I could even fathom letting him slice me open that way like one of his dead corpses, somehow brought back to life by his skilled hands. It was too much and not enough. The commotion of everything I felt right then sprang forth a mist of tears. What were these strange, foreign feelings taking hold of me?
