From That Cliff, Paradise Is in Sight

I killed him. I did. The countless stains of blood on his hands, the truth of who he was—after hearing it, I couldn’t bring myself to look into his eyes anymore. I was afraid he’d see it. The way my heart pounded, ready to burst, against the scars carved into his gaze. “When does this end?” A fake bride. A fake marriage. Years spent drowning in tears, bound to a ledger soaked in ink and a knife stained with blood. Instead of resisting, I chose to wrap my fingers around the back of his neck, tracing the quiet pulse beneath my touch. “That…” His hand again. This time, under my skirt. A burning palm sliding up my ice-cold thigh. “Not now.” His breath brushes against my skin. Once again, ...