Whispers

 
 

Fourth Denial

It hadn't happened.

She hadn't brushed his skin with her bare fingers, felt the shadow across his jaw, hadn't itched to trace those contours and hadn't had the freedom to do it. Her heart was not pounding beneath her skin. Her hands were not remembering.

She'd absorbed him. Absorbed him. That's what she did. She was poison; she was danger; she was death wrapped up in a pretty package.

She hadn't touched him, not and felt him, unhurt, unharmed for far too long to be real. It was a fluke of her sense of time. She'd absorbed him.

She had.

 


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