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For those we couldn’t save.
I’ve spent a lifetime trying to repair the damage.
You can’t save those who don’t see a problem.
Or maybe it’s because, deep down, part of me still hopes I can love him to recovery. That if I don’t give up on him, he won’t give up on life. On himself. I’m wrong, of course. So unbelievably fucking wrong. Some people just don’t want to be saved.
“You’re hardly in a position to be negotiating,” he says, voice thick. “Should I get on my knees then?” His free hand finds the button of my jeans, pushing it through the loop. Hooking a thumb in the waist, he gives a small shake of his head. “I’d much rather be on mine.”
“I just know, all right?” He wouldn’t leave me without saying goodbye.
Christ, I want to kiss her. Ruin her makeup, just because I know it’d piss her off.
I, on the other hand, have always had an end in mind. Power.
Money might be the root of all evil, but it sure makes life easier when you’ve got it.
There are more people watching than you’ll ever know. Never let them see you with your guard down.
and I can feel everyone in the room eye-fucking her. I’m doing it too, surely, but I’m allowed. Finders keepers and all that jazz.
“Souls are often ruined by so many untruths, you know.”
People excuse a lot when their livelihood is threatened. Safety becomes justifiable through any means necessary when it’s a luxury you scrape and scrounge for in the first place.
“Do I look like someone who dances?” “You look like a woman who sacrificed her soul to the devil. I learned long ago not to judge based on appearances.”
Wolves protect their packs, and as such, Wolfe men are loyal to a fault.
“Anger made me who I am.”
Every time he touches me, there’s this sense of urgency, like he’s afraid it might be the last time he gets to.
“Why can’t you just admit you’re jealous?” “Because I’m not.”
Sometimes, in order for your soul to get on board, it needs outside encouragement.
People are users; that’s just how humanity is wired.
Some just choose to be more self-aware of the fact that they play into the cycle.
A woman made for sin—the body of an angel and the heart of a bloody devil.
Or perhaps it’s my own penance, for wanting what I shouldn’t.
“It’s always been you, Alistair. I always think of you.”
Toxic? Yes. Never claimed to be anything but.
That’s the thing about disappointments; no matter how long you spend trying to make yourself immune to them, they don’t stop hurting. Eventually, all you’re left with is a heart full of bitterness.
