Make Me Yours (A Steamy Collection)
fuck, his eyes.
Even half-lidded with pain, they burn into me, They’re a startling, unnatural green, Witches don’t have eyes like that. Ours are violet, or ice-blue, or the hollow black of a starless night.
I crouche lower, my white hair, dyed black under my glamour The illusion is perfect brown eyes instead of purple, a human’s duller aura instead of the normal witch beauty
Damian’s trembling hand lifts, His fingers smudged with his own blood, and he cups my jaw.
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