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“You will be,” the Chronomancer answered in a rough brogue. “He will love you to death.”
“An Englishman against colonization?” Bane said. “Good thing I’m sitting down.”
In her mind’s eye flashed a series of impressions. Visions of Malachy Bane. Naked and bathed in cream, smiling a slow, devastating smile. Then, hunched over and grimacing in pain, blood dripping down his arm. Then, kneeling between her thighs and gazing up at her with sky blue eyes. And finally, lying on a bed of stars, his heart beating in her hand.
Bane was mired in his own tumultuous thoughts. Transfixed by his glowing hand, he moved his fingers as if they belonged to someone else. “I have made a grave mistake,” he muttered.
“Cora.” He lifted her chin to meet his eyes, as vast as a moonless night. “Fuck that. You’re not an abomination. People have projected their fear of death onto you, and you’ve internalized it as shame. But you have power. They fear that power. Let them fear you.”
“On the contrary. We should be grateful women only seek equality, not revenge.”
“I can’t pull your head out of your arse for you. Cora, you are your own greatest obstacle. This guilt over being born, it’s so… Catholic.”
He watched her with a look dangerously akin to pity. “Let them fear you, Cora. Fuck them. If they slander you, rot out their tongues. If they strike you, rot off their hands. Send their arses to the Death Realm and be done with it.”
“I see a woman with enough power to bring the world to its knees, yet you let them hold you down with the tips of their fingers.”
