Painted Devils (Little Thieves, #2)

by Margaret Owen

lingering like the gloaming,

just that the stillness shudders,

I can’t—I can’t find the words, because for so long I have lived afraid of feeling like this, like roots might grow through my skin instead of thorns, and I wonder if roses, too, fear the moment the petals break through the bud.

“But you were mad at me this morning,” I say, confused. He shifts in place, the flush spreading to his cheeks. “I can be upset and still think you deserve nice things.”

I count to thirteen, for luck.

It’ll take time, slowly peeling each finger off my throat. I want to let her go. That doesn’t mean she wants to release me.