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This must be what it feels like to have your soul ripped out by the Grim Reaper.
“You were a good sport, Glyndon.”
I would rather call this a disaster, a manifestation of my fucked-up muse, than talent.
“If you’re so intent on pushing us away, you might not find us when you actually need us, Glyn.”
“Now, can we go back to the dorm without worrying about finding Ces’s corpse floating in the sea tomorrow?”
“I’m Annika Volkov, by the way. You can call me Anni or Anne. Just not Nika.”
“There’s a thing called a condom. Ever heard of it? Oh, sorry, forgot you’re a prude.”
He tsks, his voice a darkened whisper. “You sure are hard to find alone, Glyndon.”
A disaster might or might not kill you, princess. But being terrified of it would definitely finish you.
These eyes that resemble the clashing of a rainy forest with the night. During the night, I couldn’t decipher their color, but even in the light, the blue is so dark, it’s as if they’re colorless. He’s colorless, and not in a bland sense, but in the exact opposite way.
“I like it when you ask, but the answer to your question is no.” The pads of his fingers press into the flesh of my neck. “I kind of like this position.”
“I’d never, ever give you the time of day or look in your direction if I had a choice. Never.” “Never say never, baby.” “I’m not your baby.” “You’re whatever the fuck I call you, baby.
