The final sketch was of our time in his dungeon. In it, I’m handcuffed to his bed, mouth open, tongue snaked and spitting venom. Clint kneeled behind me, blood seeping down his back from a wound I’d put there, a wide leather belt caged around his fist. The bed balanced on a hill of serpents, and we both bore red eyes and horns. There was beauty in that, too, because even at our worst, I was loved. Only love could breed such hate.
