Rachel Caine

I can understand the lonely, solitary life better than most.

And how harshly others can judge it.

Sam kisses like someone who means it. He tastes of the rich, dark cherry flavors of the Bordeaux.

Everything he’s done is tainted now to me. Every smile was just mechanics. Every laugh was manufactured. Every public sign of affection was just that: for the public.

And always, always, the monster lay just under the surface of it all.