“I told you, sweetheart. I like destroying pretty, innocent things.” Her eyes look up into mine. She searches as if she’s trying to decipher my words, but they were honest. There was no hidden meaning. “Why?” she asks again, and her voice wavers. That fear creeping back into her features. “Because perfect things don’t belong in a fucked-up world.” It’s that simple. She swallows. “I’m not perfect.” I lean in, my lips almost touching hers, and her breath hitches. “You are to me.” I’ve never said anything more true to a woman. She is just like me. The fight. The anger. The hate. I see the way she
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