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Survival’s funny. Some wear it like a whisper, others like a scream. Mine’s a scorched skeleton of flame-forged rage that keeps me upright. Keeps me moving forward. There’s not much that’s wet and squishy left in my chest. It’s all hard and hostile,
“Your hips are sharp,” he grumbles, and I bash my fists against his back, knowing there’s next to no point. Doing it anyway. “I’ll show you something sharp.” “Every word that comes out of your mouth is sharp, Moonbeam.”
Bossy and a bad listener . . . Definitely needs to die.
My words catch on the tip of my tongue as he takes my hand and brings it close to his heart, the pad of his thumb running back and forth across the torn skin down the side of my nail. His gaze implores, voice plagued with a sadness too heavy to bear as he says, “Chase death, Moonbeam. And I pray your bloodlust brings you the same sense of peace I feel just knowing you exist.”
Keeping her tucked close, I move with her, breath stilling when she settles her head on my chest like she means to stay, braiding my heartstrings into a perfect rope she tugs.
“I hate you,” I whimper, lifting my hips to meet the next heavy thump. “No, you don’t, Moonbeam. You love me. You’re just too busy feasting on my heart to notice.”
“Okay, well, you’re obviously feeling things—” “Regrettably.” “Do you want to fight or fuck about it?” he asks, his coarse accent cradling the question in such a visceral way that a flush of warmth hits my core.
