Then, Earth Swallowed Ocean

by Shiloh Sloane

Their eyes are similar. Greens and blues. Supposed to be good luck, those eyes, but she reckons the people who wrote those superstitions never met a man with sharp teeth.

“Don’t touch her,” Wright warns. Ridge ignores him. “Little fawn,” he insists. “Spread your legs when I speak to you.” She whimpers.

But it would never get her eyes. Would never understand the way she looked at him, like they’d never be apart for as long as they lived. They’d grown up together, gave each other more than their fucking families ever cared to give to them. She was his soul outside of his body, so something without that light could never come close.