Shane never understands why you seek him out. He’s smoke that slips between grasps. You’re a celestial being who illuminates peoples souls. He’s blessed with poison, a beautiful rage. You’re the cure, heavenly and precious.

It’s a shame he twisted you into poison too.

The room radiates nothing but earthy smells, accompanied with the mingling of his cheep cologne and your spellbound body mist. He looks down at you under his arm, noticing the daze you’re drifting off to. A realm of meadows and bliss. But he wants to keep you in the present. He wants to keep you to himself.

His fingers, used to rolling joints and not handling a sweetheart, grip your chin, turning and tilting to his liking as if you’re a doll. Starry-eyes meet his as your lashes kiss your pale skin, blinking back into focus.

Shane has corrupted little miss angel, and the violet mark on your cheekbone, which is growing sharper from ingesting less food and more drugs, is proof.