Even now, she’s staring up at me with her fucking intoxicating defiance, but on the inside, I know she’s retreating, folding in on herself. Running away. And if she thinks I can’t find her there, she’s wrong. Because I’m in her thoughts, just like she’s always in mine. I can see it in the shifting flecks of silver in her eyes. It’s in the rosy hue that illuminates her cheeks. It’s in the pulse that strobes currents of light in her throat, and the unsteady breaths that tremor in her chest. It’s in the desire that haunts her features when her focus drops to my lips and lingers.
