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

by S.T. Gibson

ven loneliness, hollow and cold, becomes so familiar it starts to feel like a friend.

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.

I wonder if you would have wanted me if you found me like that: vibrant and loved and alive.

There are no angels in this world to accompany the dying in their final moments, only pickpockets and carrion birds.

I knew then I would chase your tiny moments of weakness all the way into hell and back. What is more lovely, after all, than a monster undone with wanting?

At the time I thought it felt like a womb, nurturing and soft-edged. Now I only remember it as the tomb where we slept through our living death.

How can I blame you for wanting her, my lord, when I wanted her so badly myself?

Lying with her made me feel so vibrantly alive. It was almost enough to make me forget that I was already dead.