“This blade was created to kill me, make no mistake, but it’s not my weakness, Witchling,” he said, releasing my hands and leaving me standing there and holding the knife to my own heart. “You are.” “What are you saying?” I asked, sniffling as he put distance between us. I wanted more of it, and I wanted him to hold me all at once. That was the conflict of our love—the constant push and pull of two people who shouldn’t work, but somehow did. “I’m saying that your mistake was stabbing me. That blade was made for you,” he said, forcing me to drop my gaze to the tip of the knife where it touched
...more
I told you. Idiot.
