What do you think?
Rate this book
424 pages, Kindle Edition
First published December 2, 2022
To all the dark architects who find themselves masters of their own hells.
"You do understand,” he said, very softly, “that you were the inspiration behind those books, don’t you, Donni?” When she didn’t, couldn’t move, he said, “They say life imitates art, but in your case, that’s simply not true. Art—my art—is just a poor substitute for what I really want: you.”
"I thought you wanted to talk like civilized, rational people.”
"I lied,” he said. “What I actually want is you.”
"You,” she said haltingly, “have no idea what I’ve done or had to do. The things people said to me, the things people did to me—they do not compare to whatever imagined hurts you think I’ve made you suffer.” Her eyes, when they went to his, were electric. “You don’t fucking know.”
"Then show me,” he breathed. “Give me a taste of what you really are.”
"I wouldn’t hurt you.”
Rafe let his hands fall from her, sliding one into his pocket. When he pulled out a switchblade, Donni felt her pulse rate kick up. He handled it deftly, she couldn’t help noticing, even though this one had a tricky spring. The sharp point of it sliding out made her flinch.
Watching her, he said, softly, “I could scare you, though.”
"People talk about sexism like it’s a single killing blow, but it’s actually a series of little deaths. Women are dying and men are the sickness.”
There was a loud, deafening click.
"I want you to think of me as the cure.”
"I’m not a gold-digger,” she said stiffly.
"Then what are you? Tell me. Because I want you to be mine. Just mine.” When she moved her hand, he wrapped his fingers around it. “I didn’t know love could hurt until I met you. That longing could pierce like a knife. You’re the only woman who ever made me feel that way.”
"Rafe—I’m not a good person.”
"I don’t care.” He pressed her hand against his chest. His heart was pounding furiously. “Every time you’re near me, it’s like this. Why do you think that is?”
Her fingers curled, catching on his shirt collar. “I’m going to hurt you.”
"Then do it,” he growled. “Hurt me. Fuck me. Just don’t send me away.”
She had fallen in love with horror because it validated her belief that monsters wore human faces, and it provided an outlet for her constant fear without breaking her completely. Every time a movie made her heart pound and she felt the familiar flood of adrenaline and panic, she could stop the movie and leave the room, and it would all subside, and she would still be safe.
"I don't care if you see yourself as broken. I've been chasing your reflection in a ruin of jagged shards for the last ten years."