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“Why?” she whispered. “Why are you doing this to me? This is torture, Blackwell. Worse than anything that Phantasma has put me through!”
“God fucking damn it, I don’t know.” His eyes fluttered closed as he searched for the words. “I know this is a dangerous path. I know I should have enough self-control to just stay the fuck away, but you are the only thing that’s ever made me feel even a semblance of hope in this eternity of Hell. The dream I’ve been looking for—the one to wake me up. The thought of wasting another second when I will lose you forever in only three days has ruined me. You are the closest thing I will ever get to experiencing heaven, and I’m not ready to let it go.”
“I need you to know that you are the only person who has ever made me feel like I am capable of anything,” she lamented. “The only person who has ever made me feel truly seen.”
“But your touch?” Her voice broke now. “Your touch means fucking everything. And that’s why we can’t cross that line again.”
“In a different life, in a fair one, I would’ve kept you until my eternal soul withered away to dust,” he vowed to her.
“Have I ever told you how much I adore a woman who isn’t afraid to get her hands bloody?”
“I should’ve killed him after he hit you,” Blackwell seethed, tone dripping with regret. “Watching the light drain from his eyes would have been worth the risk of you hating me for doing such a thing.”
“He will always come to me,” she whispered. “We find each other every time. And you cannot stand that, because it means I’m no longer alone with you.”
“Oh, Ophie and I go way back, I assure you,” Sinclair said. “In fact, the last time we saw each other, my fingers were in her—” “Finish that sentence and I’ll fucking kill you,” Blackwell threatened.
“Firstly, let me reintroduce myself.” He dipped his head in a formal bow. “My name is Salemaestrus Erasmus Blackwell, Prince of the Devils. But you, angel, may call me Salem.”
WTF!?
