A Dowry of Blood (A Dowry of Blood, #1)

by S.T. Gibson

This is my last love letter to you, though some would call it a confession. I suppose both are a sort of gentle violence, putting down in ink what scorches the air when spoken aloud.

What is more lovely, after all, than a monster undone with wanting?

I had never outgrown my thirst for vengeance, and I preyed on only the most wicked members of society. Men,

You made it into an art form, this quiet sort of violence. You were so far into our heads your gentle suggestions so often felt like our own thoughts.

I promise to live, richly and shamelessly, and with my arms wide open to the world.

I would have crawled to her if she asked me, on my hands and knees like a dog.