A year to love the devil
Of him.
“If I love you… truly… you’ll let me live?”
He nodded, then knelt lower. “Live, yes. But it won’t be the same life, Yasmine. It’ll be ours, mine.”
Something ancient and terrifying shimmered behind his eyes, but it wasn’t cruel. It was lonely.
And I—broken, dying, desperate—said, “Then take it—my soul, my scars, my rage. Make them yours.”
His hand rested over my chest, just above my heart. A pulse of warmth—not heat, not fire, but something like memory—radiated through me.
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