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She’d always possessed the kind of internal grit necessary to persevere through bleak times.
She’d always possessed a kind of nihilistic fearlessness, a bravery born not from heroism or gallantry but from the fact the worst had already happened.
The Bloodmoon from the prophecy. The one she was fated to kiss—and to kill.
She was fated to kiss—and to kill—the kingpin’s son. And at that moment, she didn’t know which part was more horrifying.
There was always a choice. She just had to make the wrong one.
My heart will not beat until I see you again.
She dreamed of pain itself: a towering scarlet, a never-ending shaft of darkness.
She kept waiting for her mind to detach itself from reality, the way it always did during moments of horrific violence, kept waiting to float out of her own body and watch the scene from afar, but she remained agonizingly rooted inside herself.
They were not the hands of a killer, and yet they were.
“I feel everything at full and terrible force. I just keep it inside, where it belongs.”
She was no Foreseer, and yet, somehow, she knew that she and Levan were at the center of something enormous and devastating, something that would end in mutual ruin. Something that would not just unmake them both—it would unmake everything. Of course, it was very possible she was just in love.
