Bane (Sinners of Saint, #4)

by L.J. Shen

Falling in love is when you lose yourself slowly, piece by piece. Infatuation is when you lose yourself all at once. Love is like ivy. It wraps around you, chokes every part of you quietly. It is not patient, or kind, or gentle. It is needy, cunning, and suffocating.

“Snow White waited for the prince. You’ll be the one saving yourself in this story.” I blinked at him, thinking about what my dad used to say, his accent thick, almost as strong as his words.

“You don’t need a prince, princess. You need a sword.”

“I want your ass. Happy? Want it with the scars. With the fucked-up, tragic story. With every fiber of my body. I want to fuck you, and own you, and bruise you, and save you. But I can’t do any of those things. Why? Because you’d hate me afterwards, and that’s a fact, not a speculation. Mark my words. For reasons I can’t tell you right now, fucking you will break you and ruin me. And I may be a bastard, but I’m not the fucking villain.”

She looked up to the sun, pointed at it and said, “Sometimes the sun is a liar. Sometimes it’s out, even though it is cold.”

Maybe love wasn’t about feeling happy and whole. Maybe love was about breaking so the person you cared for would feel a little more whole.