I gaze at the ceiling, my heart beating like a drum. My body felt battered, and my core ached.
I slowly looked down at the man resting gently on my stomach. His arm was draped over my right breast, measuring it like a molded cup. I let out a sigh and mindlessly played with his hair, dumbfounded.
His words replayed in my head like an overused, familiar lyric. What he said was clear, yet I couldn't acknowledge it. I had my reasons. A victim and an executioner don't belong together. Even though he had set me free and chosen to let me live, that didn't suddenly mean something was developing between us.
I had so many questions. Why me? Why now? Was he serious? Was a cold-hearted murderer like him capable of this? I didn't want to judge, as I didn't know his story, but he was hard to read. I
