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To morally gray book boyfriends. Thank you for raising our standards from “oh, flowers and chocolates are nice” to “bring me the heads of my enemies.”
There are scars and wounds that will never show, that never leave a physical mark at all, but those injuries to the soul can be just as debilitating as being stabbed or shot.
“Kill for you, live for you, die for you.”
“You’re fucking wrong if you think that. You’re not ruined. You’re strong as hell. You’re a queen, with four men who would all get on our knees for you. We wouldn’t want you so damn bad if you weren’t steel all the way through, baby girl. You’re not. Fucking. Ruined.”
“You’re not broken. You’re a fucking warrior, through and through. You hear me, goddammit? You’re strong enough to survive this.”
There’s a word written there, the raised, swollen cuts stark against the rest of my skin. Ours.
“I know how this feels. How the loss tries to destroy you.”
“Wow. That’s very Zen of you,” I tease. “You’re like a psychotic, murderous Winnie the Pooh.”
Let the whole fucking world know. River is ours. Ours to protect. Ours to worship. Our fucking queen.
“You look like you’re about to knife someone,” she says. “You have resting murder face.”
