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Thornchapel knows my name and the crooked corners of my heart, and it wants me to make promises that I’m going to keep.”
Pretend he isn’t growing a tree of thorns inside his chest and that those thorns don’t have names. Delphine. Rebecca. Becket. Saint Sebastian. Proserpina.
Auden finally speaks, his voice low and tight and furious still. “I hate him because he deserves it. I hate him because once upon a time, I gave him a piece of my heart.” He closes his eyes, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “And then he fed it to the wolves.”
“It’s not about selling things. It’s about building a presentation of yourself that you can use for anything. For potential employers or potential lovers or potential friends. It’s a place where you can compile the most salient expressions of yourself—expressions that you choose, you curate—and create a living biography. A testament to your life and the space you deserve to occupy.”
The touch of his lips on mine is the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt.
Auden’s kiss is all of it. Every single bit of it. Like being hurt and loved all at the same time.
“But for me there’s something fundamentally beautiful about pain and pleasure mixing together, because that’s real life, right? Being alive means the harsh is mixed in with the good, and every time I get to choose the harsh for myself, it loses its sting. Every time I taste the bitter and survive, I’m all the stronger to enjoy the sweet.”
Because the other thing he knows is that tonight is holy. And he is a holy man.
The kiss is a crash and their lips meet in a collision of flesh and teeth and metal.
“You’re so wet,” he whispers. “So fucking wet.”
