Silence prevails, tension thickens, his eyes burning embers when he finally says, ‘Raeve, you could flay me down the middle and I’d still fucking love you.’ All the breath shoves from my lungs. Love … The word is a quiet death that slips away without so much as a whispered goodbye – an abrupt shove into an eternal loneliness I’ll never deign myself to claw free of. ‘Such a waste of that big, beautiful heart,’ I whisper, and his eyes flare.
