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Can I die from being stressed out because of my mate?
When I’m six feet under and the insects are eating my flesh, when the Devil himself is holding my sins, when my bones are forgotten and turn to dust, her light will bring me home.
“That’s really nice. I hope the baby is healthy.” “Aw.” I pucker my lips. “Aren’t you sweet?”
“Being a monster isn’t about how you look but how you act.”
“That’s so sweet that you would do that for him. You’d risk your life?” The quieter demon sniffles.
“Sorry.” Death apologizing is odd. “Didn’t mean to scare you. At least it wasn’t to death.”
“Tag.” Famine snags Ty’s arms back, then kicks the backs of his knees, forcing him to the ground. “You’re it, you sick fuck.”
She puts her weird monster smut book down before knee walking closer to me.
“Hi, Mr. Pete,” Rhett greets. “No, Rhett. No. Fuck, Mr. Pete. We don’t like him,” Creed sneers at the old man. Rhett lifts his middle finger. “Oh, good. Fuck you, Mr. Pete.”
