They were twisted and broken. They were haunted and hollow. And they were bloody, oh so bloody. But maybe, just maybe, they could drown in that blood together.
Dreams, however pitiful, were always sweet.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _...
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Asra Behandelar knew death. She knew fear. She knew what it was to suffer. She'd come to like the taste of course, but that didn't stop her shaking at the simplest mention of her past.
Her mother was coming, and for the first time in a while, Asra was terrified.
She remembered her mother, her family, her past. She didn't want to. She did anyway. She remembered the fear, the pain. She remembered everything.
Asra Behandelar was not going home. She would not greet her mother with open arms. She'd put a bullet through her skull before she let her gun be aimed by her mother's manicured hands.
Asra Behandelar was scared, but that only made her more dangerous. A cornered beast had nowhere to go but for the throat.
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Kaz Brekker was a man of vengeance. It was his master, his sustenance, his substance. Vengeance was the thing that flowed through his veins, pumped by sheer spite
No one crossed Kaz Brekker and lived to tell about it. No one survived Dirtyhands. No one was safe from the Bastard of the Barrel.
Except her.
Asra Behandelar was an anomaly. A mystery, an enigma, a puzzel he had come to enjoy struggling with. He didn't know what she was, who she was. But he knew no one was going to take her from him, not until he'd cracked the code to her safe, picked his way into her secrets, earned the story of her scars.
Kaz Brekker lived for his vengeance. He could avenger her too.
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All Asra knew was terror and bloodshed.
Kaz only understood vengeance and suffering.
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But maybe, just maybe, they could teach each other what it was to be human.
If everything else in this world had to burn first, so be it. They'd bring it down, brick by brick.
