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“You’re wrong, because I’m fighting witheverythingI am not to rip those clothes from your body and fuck you until I cut myself on every last broken part of your soul. I want to cover my dick in your cum, in your blood. I want to taste your tears. I want to bruise your skin. But Iwon’ttake what you’re not willing to give.That’sthe difference between who I was and who I’m fighting to be,” he says, pinning me against the wall with his body, his forearms pressed against the wall on either side of my head. Chest heaving, breaths frantic.
“Leon, back off!” Thirteen demands, but it falls on deaf ears.
Leon presses his forehead against mine. “Will you help me, Christy? Will you help me to be the man I was supposed to be beforeThe Collectorstole my innocence, my fucking kindness, my goddamn heart?”
Can I?
The honest answer is no. No, I can’t.
But the answer I eventually give him is a whisperedyes.
“Yes, I’ll help you,” I say, because whilst he might’ve shattered my heart, I intend to cut him with the shards and make himfeel, just like I’ll do to his brothers. Then, when they’re at their most vulnerable, I’ll have my revenge.
