Taste of sin
The way she wore her gown in haste, fear evident.
She turned to face me. Her eyes were sharp again, and I cleared my throat.
“I need your name,” I said, bluntly.
She blinked.
“What?”
“Your name,” I said again, slower this time. “Tell me what it is.”
She hesitated. Her eyes fixated on the floor. “Selene,” she whispered.
I sighed. “Selene,” I repeated, as if tasting it. “Well, Selene, I just told my father you’re my girlfriend.”
Bab Populer