The woman who had stolen his childhood. The woman who had terrorized him. Locked him away. Touched him. I couldn’t blame him. What was he going to do? There was nothing but death written like poetry in the space between us. There was no time for heroics. No time for him to push through the instinct that had been beaten into him since he was eight years old and held pinched between her talons. We would die together. And despite his silence, with my last dying breath I would make sure Blair knew how fucking brave he was. And then he spoke.
