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Summary
"Such a sad girl," he says, somewhat cruelly before sinking his fangs into the supple flesh of her neck.
Her blood runs hot, furious at how right he always is when he says that, spilling into his mouth as his lips form a perfect seal over her needy skin.
She hopes it burns him.
Hypocrite, she thinks.
He’s sad, too—she knows. And the more he tries to hide it, the more apparent it becomes to her. Perhaps his sorrow runs as deeply as the scars on his back. As the scars on her inner thighs, her stomach, her wrists.