I carry her over to the toolbox and sit her upon it. I unpeel her curled in, injured fist, and I take a look at the cut—it’s not too deep. Leaning down, eyes on hers, I kiss it, her blood coating my mouth. I straighten and lick my lips, tasting the metallic tang of her, and she shifts, licking her own lips. Oh yes, my little bird likes me feral. Mean. A beast. Mad.
