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This is the important thing, after all: nobody fears a beautiful woman. They revere her, worship her, sing praises to her—but nobody fears her, even when they should.
She wanted to kill him, to kiss him, to love him with her hands around his neck.
She fell into his kindness, into his tenderness, letting herself be lured back into his arms as she had always hatefully known she could be if he ever so much as tried.
She was a fucking nightmare and he was desperate to keep her, to have her for himself.
The irony was mutual, but so was the wanting.
“Anywhere.” A different life, a different world, somewhere under different stars.
“Don’t be a gentleman right now.” She pronounced the word gentleman like idiot. “We might not have time for an entire book.”
She beat a fist against his chest, furious and frustrated and faltering, the pain in her chest a slow bleed from a rotting incision, but he didn’t relent.
you will find power in you no one else will ever dream of. You will have hunger no one else will ever feel, and it will drive you. It will push you to madness or else to greatness, and you have only to choose for yourselves what your futures will be.
The irony of new moons, of beginnings in general, is that they are always begun with total blindness. No orb of light for guidance. No promise of the future, good or bad.
The majority of his sanity. The entirety of his soul.
She was just a beautiful girl capable of causing him terrible pain, not unlike all the others.
Fuck, did she own him? (Did he want her to?)
Hell, better the dream. Reality left a bitter aftertaste. And occasionally a bruise.
