“What do you fear above all else, Serenity?” he asks quietly. It’s a strange question, given our circumstances. “You,” I say automatically. I glance up at him, but he’s not looking at me. He’s staring at the ceiling, a faraway expression on his face. His thumb strokes my shoulder. “Is this another one of your ‘facts’?” Now his eyes do travel to mine. I give him a shove, even as my lips curve up. He has me there. One doesn’t make love with one’s fears. Not willingly. Then again … perhaps I am the poster child for immersion therapy.
