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"Death isn't the main course, sweetheart. It's the dessert."
"One day, Ms. Vitalio," he spoke quietly, "I am going to enjoy collecting that debt very much."
"One day, I'm going to carve your heart out and keep it as a souvenir. I promise."
"You assume I have a heart, wildcat."
In that moment, the man who'd claimed her death had given her a glimpse of life by doing something he probably didn't even realize he'd done.
"Don't you know not to run away from predators, sweetheart? We like the hunt."
"Mind that mouth of yours, wildcat,"
Tristan Caine terrified her, but it wasn't because of the death he was bringing her slowly, the death he would bring her one day, the death he raised in her. No. It was the life.
Her life. He’d lived for her life. He’d held on to his life for hers. And while her heart bled for him, while she understood him,
And then his voice, that voice of whiskey and sin, spoke in death. “Where is she?”
She knew. She had seen. And she was going to fight him, fight for him, like he’d fought for her. She was going to gamble. She was going to throw herself off the cliff and hope he would catch her.
