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Fallen. I hadn’t had to use that term in ages. Every species—faeries, werewolves, shapeshifters, nymphs—were descended from angels. No one knew whether it was mutation or evolution that had separated us.
his tears were silent. The sort of grief that couldn’t be given a voice, or it would become so big, so loud, that it ripped you apart from the inside.
“Sometimes it’s not about being stronger. It’s about being smarter,”
What do you want? You.
Something about the sadness in his eyes—the same sadness that lived in mine.
“If you died, Fortuna, I’d follow you into whatever afterlife there is. The rest doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“It’s simple, really. Close your eyes. Picture the worst possible outcome. Be cruel to yourself. Spare no pain. Do this again, and again, and again. Until one day, you find yourself immune to it, and the fear no longer controls you.”
“Everything is fucked up. If I found a way to cope with it, who cares how?”
Sometimes, if you wanted it too badly, sleep liked to play games. It eluded, teased, or disappeared entirely.
