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Bhadra

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“Faye tilted her head slightly. “When was your first kill?” Winston met her stare for a long while, then exhaled. “I was nineteen, fighting a war I probably shouldn’t have been fighting, but it’s not like I knew that at the time.” “Mm. Did you regret it?” Winston grinned, but she could see the dark edges to it. “What? You think I come from some tragic backstory, blondie? That I’m a broken little boy who kills to fill that hole inside of my chest where my soul used to be? Nah. This ain’t one of them stories. I can’t dance or roll my tongue, but I can kill people pretty good. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at and when I lay my head down at night, I sleep like a baby. I don’t see their faces. Never have. Probably never will.” A chill spilled through her. The matter-of-fact nature of his confession scared her more than almost anything else she’d ever heard him say.”

“I want every breath, every laugh, every tear. Every taste of your mouth, every inch of your skin. I want to kneel at your feet, soaked in the blood of your enemies, then worship your body until you scream my name. I want to burn alive in that fire in your eyes. I want it to melt me down and forge me into the weapon you need me to be. I want to stand by your side for the rest of my life, and I don’t need you to marry me and make me a f-ing king to do it.”

“Und dann umarmte ich sie einfach. Alvas Hände umfassten meinen Rücken, und mit einem Mal fiel mir auf, wie ausgehungert ich all die Jahre gewesen war. Sie ließ mich nicht los, oder ich nicht sie. Ich glaube, wir standen eine volle Minute regungslos, einander fest umarmend auf dem Bahnsteig, und mir wurde bewusst, dass wir uns nach diesem Abend nicht mehr wiedersehen würden. Weil meine Zeit mit ihr unweigerlich in der Vergangenheit lag und weil ich das nicht ertrug.”