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Yeah, the distance between prim and primitive is not so very motherfucking far.
Her gaze finds mine, and something flares in me. Because I would catch her. And the hottest thing is that I think she knows it. Maybe nobody has ever caught her, but I would. I would catch her. I would keep her. Make her mine.
They say there are two types of fear—the kind that has you running far, far away, and the kind that shakes you so deeply that you can’t look away.
“Drive nicely, that’s how you say it. Not drive nice.” Oh God. Nicely. Correcting my grammar even at gunpoint. I’m so fucking hot for her, I think I might burst into flames.
There’s a natural order to people: the strong and the weak.
“You’ll lose this fight, you know,” he says matter-of-factly as he slides his calloused fingers over the thin fabric of my bra. “Congratulations—you can dominate somebody half your size.”
“That’s not the fight I’m talking about. You’ll lose the fight you’re fighting with yourself.” He kisses my neck. “The fight to not feel this. The fight against desire.”
Pain is a funny thing. We fight so hard to avoid it, almost more than death. But it’s the only thing that binds us. Going through pain together and coming out on the other side is the only form of friendship I’ve ever known.
“Some people can never be fixed,” he says to me. “Some wounds can never be healed. Not ever.”
“Sometimes, Abigail, you have to punch a fucking hole in your soul to survive.”
Death and kisses. Blood and sex. They twine together in a dark braid I bury deep inside.
Misery is wanting what you don’t have.
I want to hurt her and I want to protect her. Break her and shield her.
“Because I had to get you out of here.” He closes his hand around my upper arm and pulls me up. “I’ll always come for you. You’re mine.”
“I am strong enough,” she says. “Strong enough to tell you no. Strong enough to know you’re better than this. Strong enough to motherfucking love you.”
