“How many wounds do you have that you just let bleed, Clara?” His words are little more than a whisper. The pad of his thumb grazes against my lower lip. I fight a quiver and lose. “How many wounds do you have?” Turning the question back to him is a weak retort and I know it. As weak as my knees feel. “Enough that I’ll remake the whole world to fix them.” His voice is deep. I didn’t expect him to answer.
