I realize as I watch his throat work, that I really want those lips back on me. And those hands—hands that have cut down so many—I want them to slide over my skin. I want them to relieve this growing ache I feel when I’m around him. Famine lowers the bottle, giving me a suspicious look. “What are you thinking about?” he asks. Hell no am I going to admit my true thoughts. “Just thinking about Death,” I reply. Wrong response. His sharp gaze grows sharper still. “Whatever you think of him,” he says, “he does not deserve that look on your face.” “What look?” I ask, touching my cheek. “Like you
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