“You,” said Robin. Every time it was easier. It was carving its own groove in his mouth. “I want you.” Edwin closed his eyes. “You could still hurt me,” he said. “But I do think you’d somehow manage to tear your own arm off before you did it on purpose.” His tone walked a tightrope between disapproval and wonder. “And I’m sick to death of being afraid, and I want you. Enough to risk it. More than enough. You make me feel like something—extraordinary.”
