Killman Creek (Stillhouse Lake, #2)

by Rachel Caine

I crave safety. And I know that seeking that in the arms of another man—even Sam—is dangerous. My safety has to be found within myself.

Need came later, but it came on slowly. Softly. Against my will.

There are moments when it feels like I’ve always known her. And then, like tonight, there are moments when I feel like I don’t know her at all. Like she’s a mystery I’ll never solve, wrapped in barbed wire and thorns and roses.

It isn’t fair, or right, but it’s dreadfully human, the way we tear each other apart.

“If I’m already dead to the people I love, I might as well die for them.” It’s bleak, and it makes perfect sense to me. I think that for the first time Sam Cade really pities me now, as if I’m broken. But I’m not. I’m forged hard out of pieces, like a bar of solid steel. There’s nothing soft left. I’m too broken to be broken anymore.

I know what it feels like to be the survivor, and it turned me inside out. Don’t do that to them.” I feel him swallow. “Don’t do it to me.”

Nightmares aren’t frightening once you wake up. Memories are.

Funny how a little whisper of hope can steady you.