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He seemed to be this strange mixture of brute force and childlike possessiveness, like Noah was his new favorite toy and he’d smash it before he’d let anybody else play with it. That shouldn’t have been hot…but it was. Noah had never been anybody’s favorite anything.
If he didn’t stop saying things like that, Noah was going to do something stupid like fall in love with a murderer.
“I know you’re mine. I know it. Deep down, in that part of my brain that doesn’t care what is right or how society dictates how people choose a mate. I chose you. I want you. Just you. My brain has picked you, and now, I can’t undo it. You’re trapped. With me. For life.”
“I can’t fix what I did if I don’t know what it was. Please, just tell me.”
Noah’s chest ached. Adam had called two people to find out what humans did when other humans were hurting. Was that romantic? What the fuck did Noah know? It felt sweet.
“Let’s go watch this on the big TV downstairs. You can bring the blanket and your emotional support vodka.”
That’s why people always talk about how charming serial killers are. We’re very good at pretending to be people. But it’s all acting. Most of the time, we don’t mean a thing we say. But, in this case, I’m telling the truth.
“What? No. I can be mad without leaving you. I’m probably going to be mad at you a lot because you do boneheaded shit like this and then don’t even have the capacity to feel bad about it.”
