The idea of telling a soul about what had happened last night was the furthest thing from my mind. It was mine, ours. I wanted to wrap it up and keep it hidden from prying eyes. So that when I was alone, I could unwrap it carefully, examine it for things that didn’t exist: soft eyes, gentle pleas, tender touches. Giving any part of it to Blackwell made me want to murder something. I’d destroy it first.
