Sinclair Breckenridge’s POV:
“How do you feel when you do those things?”
“Powerful.” I purposely choose that word because it’s the one she used to describe how she felt when she brought Duff to his knees. I want her to see just how similar we are.
She watches out the window for a minute before speaking again. “Do you like the way it feels?”
I can’t lie. I get a high from it. “Very much.”
Another minute passes. “Okay.”
What? “Just … okay?”
“Would you like me to be horrified?” she asks. “I can do that if it would make you feel better or improve your opinion of me.”
She’s no fucking Pollyanna. So I guess there’s no reason for her to pretend to be. “No. Okay works for me.”
I’m not sure if I should be disturbed by her lack of appall. It feels like a double standard to be shocked by an absence of dismay.
My God, has the pot met the kettle? “I wish I could get inside your head.”
“No, you don’t,” she says. “My mind is a dark place to be.”
I think I may have met the perfect woman. In her eyes, I’m not a monster at all.
When she’s not writing, she’s thinking about writing. When she’s being domestic, she’s listening to her iPod and visualizing scenes for her current work in progress. Every story coming from her always has a song to inspire it.
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