I didn’t gouge them out, Butcher. I plucked them. Delicately. Like a lady.
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I didn’t gouge them out, Butcher. I plucked them. Delicately. Like a lady.
I would kill for you, and I have. I would do it again, every damn day. I’d turn myself inside out for you. I would die for you. I don’t just like you, Sloane, and you fucking know it.
There's art in our scars. There's wonder in the way we can heal.