I’ll give up everything for him, all the sad love songs and all the bike rides. All the desolate bridges and lonely places.
I’ll give up myself because I belong to him.
I belong to my darling Arrow.
As soon as I think that, he comes too.
He comes with a roar, his hands clenching and clenching my flesh and his hips stumbling and jerking against me.
His cock expands so much that I think the latex will burst and all the ropes of his cum will shower over my womb. And my greedy, lovesick womb will absorb it like I absorbed the violins and his violent fucking.
My entire body will absorb him.
Absorb everything he gives me.
The guy I’m in doomed love with.
My Arrow.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Something is wrong.
Very, very wrong.
I mean, of course I knew that. I knew that something was wrong because not only did he come back from LA feeling all mysterious and strangely restless, he also actually told me that he had a shitty week.
So I know things aren’t all that great.
But then as soon as we were done back in the alley behind the bar and he dressed me up like I’m really his doll – without looking into my eyes though and with very tight, angry movements – it started to snow.
The very first snow of the season.
That’s when I realize it’s November now. Mid November.
I’ve been at St. Mary’s for two and a half months. That’s almost the same amount of time that Arrow – new Arrow – has been back.
Ever since he arrived, I’ve lost all sense of time. I’ve been living in a dream, walking on clouds and I don’t like the reminder.
I don’t like this reality check.
I don’t like the snow either.
I know people think snow is pretty and auspicious and whatnot. But I’m the girl who loves summer and sunshine and open roads.
Snow interferes with all of that.
Now I have this foreboding in my chest that something awful is going to happen.
But I try to push it aside. I try to be rational and strong as I climb off his motorcycle when we reach St. Mary’s.
As soon as my feet hit the ground, the wind brings the flakes of snow into my face and I huddle inside his vintage leather jacket that I’d worn to the bar. And I’m reminded of the first night that I saw him, kissing that girl.
He was so unapproachable back then, so deliberately tight-lipped.
And right now, he appears exactly like that first night. Tight and agitated. He hasn’t even looked at me, actually.
He’s staring straight ahead, into the darkness, his back all rigid. His fingers are clenched so tightly around the handlebars that I want to reach out and loosen them up.
