Blackfeather Woods Angel of small death

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Safe, he said. Vague but intentional, it eased her even when he bore down against her, his breath on her neck sending a surge of heat sent to every corner of her body; he enveloped her and she could focus on nothing else; her face flushed.

Synder did not know what she wanted in the grand scheme of it all. She knew what she wanted in this moment, at least; perhaps it was some sort of self destructive drive that urged her to move along with him, her hips lowered to put less strain on her leg. For a moment she had to look back at him, remind herself of who it was, who it wasn't. 

So long, she had toed the line of violence, of injustice and cruelty. She wanted to be safe. Was he the kind that would satisfy such a fantasy? Well, he certainly satisfied one in the present moment.