Tate didn’t need to be unwound, Silva thought. He needed to be rewound. Somewhere along the line, his coil of existence had twisted; twisted and kinked, and the rest of the spool had tightened around his heart. She needed to rewind him, she was certain; unspool his closely guarded emotions, untwist the flaw that kept him holding himself from her at arm’s length, and rewind their threads together.
