DESPOINA
Could she walk away from him now?
Would she want to?
She isn’t sure. Her chest nearly caves in when he closes the distance between them and all she can smell is the spice of him, that rich scent that permeates every shadow and every darkness that falls from him. She makes a soft sound when he reaches for her and she allows her head to be lifted, her black eyes peering out at him and trying to find the core of that which writhes in the inky waves.
Her heart cracks in her chest because she knows the answer is no.
She couldn’t walk away from him—not now, maybe not ever.
She isn’t sure if that makes her pathetic or makes her strong, but she knows that the second he steps away, something vital in her calls out to him. So she doesn’t run. She doesn’t fight him anymore. She just stands quietly, listening to him spill out so much truth—so many things she isn’t sure she is ready to hear.
And when he grows quiet again, she doesn’t accept his apology or point any more daggers at his chest. She doesn’t snarl or show her teeth. She just studies his face, those red eyes and shadows. The darkness that he embodies, that swallows him whole. She studies him with a fierce kind of intensity, as if she could finally understand him. And she realizes that she wants to. Desperately. She wants to know all of him.
“Tell me about what happened,” she asks, her voice once against soft, a whisper between them.
She looks at his gaze and holds it.
“I want to know everything.”
I guess the sound of your voice in the aching will just have to do