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My husband. My protector. My macabre fantasy.
Lila must’ve been a lizard in a previous life, because she liked the thermostat on seventy-six. I preferred it at forty-nine. We settled for seventy-six. Whoever said marriage was all about compromise had never wedded an Italian princess.
Lmao
“Protecting you is a compulsion at this point. I’d stop the night from falling if darkness scares you, Lila.”
She was playful and confident and fearless. I no longer set the pace of what was happening. The conqueror became the conquered. And I knew, with amusing, dark finality, that I was completely, tragically, wretchedly hers.
“I think you are beautiful,” she voiced out loud, to bring the point home. “And if I had to choose a husband all over again, I’d still choose you.”
I’d won the most precious thing she had to give—her trust—and I wasn’t going to fuck it up.
She was an obsession. A compulsion. Martyrs had died for lesser causes.
