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He could admit his lies, and clearly, I could not.
He stood between my knees, shirtless and broad, before dropping to his knees slowly. “You are the only one I have ever or will ever kneel before.”
“When I’m on my knees for you, my sweet death, I will do anything for you.”
“For her, for them, I’d do anything.” “I know, James,” she whispered, placing a hand on my arm. “And that’s why your hell is nothing.”
This was my perfectly crafted hell. Where I wanted or desired the flames, the fight, the battle and pain, my place of great torment was a soft and quiet thing of no purpose, no outcome, no escape. My strength, my powers, were nothing here. I was nothing here.
“You are my burning willow. You are my hell; my place of eternal torment and sorrow. I am your devil, your guardian. I should love nothing, but I love only you,”
“I know you said you’re not a white picket fence girl. But what about a spiked wrought-iron gate girl?”
And they haunted happily ever after.
