My heart should be breaking, too, but there comes a point when you’re so inured to loss that you no longer feel the lash.

He went in, lean and deadly, and ended the creature with a lightning-fast spike of his blade. It shrieked, likely altering the rest. The death call carried like a mournful song.

But it was like a dance across a field strewn with razors, and I bled with every step I took.

Just . . . love me, and let tomorrow look after itself.

I know you have bad news,” I say softly. “I’m ready for it.” But that’s not true. One is never ready. You just lie and say you are and hope you can take the hit on the chin without going down.

There’s a reason I hate jigsaw puzzles. I don’t have the patience to find all the border pieces, especially when they’re all the same shade of gray.

Caring too much could be dangerous; I saw that now. But the alternative was no better.