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“If you were mine, I’d come to you,” he growled seductively. “Hell, I’d probably never leave your side. I certainly wouldn’t have let you drive this beat-up truck without airbags.”
“When I decide I want something,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave, “I don’t just dip my toe in to test the waters. I dive in headfirst. I’m all in, come hell or high water.”
Some guys bought their girls flowers. I’d cut off some guy’s dick and serve it to her on a silver platter.
“We can have fun,” I said, my fingers trailing down her stomach. “But don’t fucking tell me it won’t mean anything, Wildflower. You’re my new favorite obsession.”
“Are you confused when you come in my palm? Confused when you’re wet for me? Confused when you ache for my cock? ’Cause I’m not.
Wildflowers were resilient. They grew against all odds. And I’d fucking watch her bloom.
Today, I’d paint the ground a bloody red for her. I’d tear the world apart for her. I’d serve up vengeance on a silver platter for her.
I would be her guardian, her sentinel, her avenger. I would be the shadow that lurked in the night, the blade that struck down her enemies, the shield that would protect her from all harm. I would be her strength when she faltered, her solace when she wept, her sanctuary when the world threatened to tear her apart.
“That’s the thing about obsessions, Wildflower. They rarely make sense. I don’t need a reason to crave you—ache for you. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, a spark burns down the whole fucking world. I saw you. I wanted you. I wanted us.”
I killed. I endured. I saved my fucking self.
At that moment, she was no damsel. She was a warrior. A survivor. An avenger.
