It always hurts.
D r i f t . . .
I’m proud. Bereft.
Petrified.
Surrounded by her colors and scent, I watch a ship sail away—the smell of her blood, fear, and heartache still thick on the back of my throat.
She almost drowned trying to escape me, because I didn’t talk. Again.
Always.
Why did I lock that door? My unsaid words might slit her throat. Burn her at the stake. Cut off her ears.
I’ll only have myself to blame.
D r i f t . . .
Her hand is around me, working me.
Greedy, I fall into her carnal attention, gorging on her scraps like an animal.
I hate myself for it.
What I really want is her heart.
D r i f t . . .
There’s a hole in my chest, and I want to tell her it’s okay. Because it is.
I deserve to wear her hurt.
Her hate.
But for the first time in my life, I have so many words to say … and now I can’t catch breath to speak them.
D r i f t . . .
She’s kneeling on a bed of white pillows, her lips a dark shade of red. Another man lays her down, and she lets him.
“Kiss me.”
I can see the lie in her gold-dusted eyes.
His hands are on her. Now his lips.
I’m murderous.
Powerless.
This mouth won’t scream my words—
D r i f t . . .
I’m looking into the amethyst eyes of someone who fills my chest entirely, her hand on my cheek, regret in her watery gaze.
My heart breaks even before she calls it a mistake.
