“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.
