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Women have always had to apologize or bend to their will. We were punished for their weak character. In doing so, we helped them keep us down like pitiful creatures they claimed us to be. When in truth, we were the dragons.
In my case, because nothing was ever normal with me, my familiar was my pet afterbirth. I shall name him squishy.
“Before you, nothing I ate had any taste.” His mouth almost grazed mine. “All I could smell was death. Nothing but killing made me feel anything. Then you walked into my life.” His hand slid under my jaw. “And I don’t see just gray. I feel, smell, taste, and want to fuck you in every color.”
“And when I saw you tonight, I realized something.” “What?” His thumb slid over my lips, tracing them roughly. “The wolf isn’t leashed… and yet it still runs back to you.”
“Kovacs.” He gripped my face, an emotion I had never seen flicker in his eyes. A naughty grin tugged his mouth. “I fuckin’ missed you.”
All I understood was that Warwick and I walked the line, and even if we lived in the gray, we fucked in color.
“Right,” Warwick growled, getting into Killian’s face. “I haven’t had time to thank you for drugging and almost killing my mate.” He shoved at Killian.
People considered “breaking” a sign of weakness. I disagreed. Bending meant you could be molded and shaped into something else. I may be full of dents, scars, and trauma, but whatever they did to me, they could not bend and form me into their idea. They turned me rigid. Titanium. I broke; I did not bend. I snapped; I did not bow. They did not twist and cast me into something different. My broken pieces could be forged together. Made stronger.
