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I’m not sure whether I want to laugh, scream, strip, or escape.
“You’re a storm wearing his daughter’s face. And storms? They don’t bend. They break.” He squeezes my hand. “So break it, koukla. Break it all.”
“I’d burn this whole city to find you.” “That’s not romantic; that’s psychotic.” His laugh rumbles through his chest and into my spine. “They’re one and the same, ptichka.”
“Wrong. I want you in the only way that matters: utterly, completely, and permanently.”
“I want you so much it’s rotting my bones.
“You asked me why I stopped kissing you in the car,” he rasps. “It’s because I knew. One taste, and I’d need another. Then another. Until you weren’t just a means to an alliance—you were the fucking air.”
“You want to breathe,” he says. “I get that. But the answer is this: Trust me. Let me strangle everything that suffocates you. Let me be the knife in your shadow. The wolf at your door.” His forehead presses to mine. “I don’t ask you to love this life, Ariel. Only to let me love you through it.”
