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That’s what cancer does. It ravages you from the inside out without caring who you are. It doesn’t matter whether you keep the world in the palm of your hand or if you have more money than God. It just feeds on death. And death always wins, one way or another.
It’s amazing what we’re capable of overlooking— what we’re willing to do— when it comes to those we love.
“My love for you is dangerous.” A heavy breath whooshes from her mouth, a tear rolling from her eye, dripping over the back of my knuckles. I move, pressing a kiss to her wet cheek to soak up her cries. “I would kill anyone who looked at you. Anyone who dared to even breathe too close.” Her body shakes against mine. “I want your blood and your anger and your violence and your lust.” My thumb brushes against her bottom lip. “I want your smiles and your tears and your insolent fucking mouth.”
“I want to reach into your chest and hold your heart in my hands, making sure it only beats for me,” I rasp. “But I don’t want your firsts, Yasmin. I want your forever.”
“I’m in love with you, Julian Faraci. And I would burn the world myself if it meant I could keep you by my side.”
Some people say that family is family, blood is blood. But I say that toxic is toxic, and no one is more important than my inner peace, even if it means I lose them for good.
