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“The most beautiful woman on the continent. No close seconds. They call her a vision, a masterpiece, a myth. From now on, she only has one name—mine,”
“You have to stop trying to kill me, Lila. It’s giving me a massive hard-on, and I’ve never been good with delayed gratification.”
“Morality is mediocrity’s dry-cunted sister.”
“I’m not letting you go, you know.” My voice was calm, final, before I let my eye flutter shut. “You’re mine. Only fucking mine. Till my last breath.”
“To keep my wife, Chiara, I wouldn’t only hit a woman, I’d chase God himself with a fucking baseball bat.”
And I knew, with amusing, dark finality, that I was completely, tragically, wretchedly hers.
it sickened me, how other men pretended other women were attractive when my wife was in the room.
I didn’t miss my other eye often. But when I did, it was because it took me twice as long to watch every atom of my wife’s existence every night. To count each of her thirty-three beauty spots—yes, including the one behind her ear. Her fourteen freckles, all of them peppered across her celestial nose. All the twenty shades of yellow and silver in her hair.
She had the power to destroy me. And I would let her. I’d gladly burn for this woman just so she could feel the warmth of my flame. The more I tried to unlove her, the deeper she burrowed into my skin.
