Chapter1

Peregrine had me pinned down on the bed, kissing me fiercely, when he said he was preparing to go straight. He bit my lip hard, the taste of blood filling my mouth. I pushed him away forcefully and slapped him. "Peregrine, what the hell is wrong with you?" I gripped his wrist and shoved. He didn't let go. Instead, he leaned closer, his thumb gently brushing my bleeding lip, his movements suddenly softening. "Evangeline," he said, his breath hot against my neck, "if I ended up marrying someone else, what would you do?" He paused. "You wouldn't make a scene at my wedding, would you?" Staring into the probing look in his eyes, I suddenly laughed. I ran my tongue over the cut, swallowing the blood mixed with bitter amusement. "This isn't the hesitant man I knew back when you stabbed someone for me and waited outside the police station for me to bring you a coat." I reached out, pulled open his collar, and ran my finger over the deeper scar below his collarbone. That was from three years ago, taking a bullet for the gang leader. The doctor said one more centimeter and it would have pierced his heart. I leaned in and kissed the scar, my teeth gently nibbling the skin, listening to his sharp intake of breath before looking up at him. "What? Afraid I'll cause trouble now?" He suddenly gripped my neck, not hard enough to choke, but enough to make my breath catch. The next moment, he slammed me back against the bed frame, the wood groaning loudly. His kisses descended with destructive urgency, from my forehead to my neck, to my collarbone, each one feeling like an act of venting. I didn't dodge. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his waist, my nails digging deep into his skin. Sex between us had always been like a fight, neither willing to yield first, neither willing to say stop. The belt buckle came undone with a dull thud, the sound of metal clinking unnaturally clear in the quiet bedroom. Staring at the old pendant lamp on the ceiling, I suddenly remembered that rainy night five years ago. I was cornered in an alley by some punks, my backpack thrown in the muddy water, my school uniform skirt torn. That's when he appeared, covered in blood, clutching a broken steel pipe, his eyes fierce like a wolf's. He pulled me out of the mud, wrapped me in his jacket, his smile cocky but carrying a reassuring strength. "If you follow me, there's no turning back. Are you sure?" Back then, I looked at the light in his eyes and nodded. "So, you're marrying that girl named Cordelia?" I asked as his movements halted. I'd heard the name Cordelia in his car last week. He was on the phone, his tone softer than I'd ever heard. I later found out Cordelia was a teacher at a neighboring school, her family was in legitimate business, clean as a blank sheet of paper. "Yes." His voice was quiet, but it felt like a knife, precisely stabbing my heart. He avoided my gaze, reaching for a cigarette on the nightstand. His lighter took a few tries to catch. In the swirling smoke, I couldn't see his expression clearly. I sat up, naked, letting the night air brush against my skin, bringing a chill. I took the cigarette from him, lit one myself, and inhaled the smoke. "Not bad," I said, looking at the city lights outside the window, the neon signs glowing in the distance, unable to illuminate the darkness inside me. "She looks very proper. Not like me, covered in scars, my hands long since dirty." After taking the last drag, I stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and dressed efficiently. As I buttoned my shirt to the third button, I felt a sharp pain in my palm. I'd accidentally knocked over a glass on the nightstand when I pushed him; a shard had lodged itself in my hand. I ignored it, kept buttoning, even smoothed my hair in the mirror. Peregrine sat on the bed watching me, silent, the cigarette in his hand burning down until it burned his finger, jolting him back to reality. "I'm leaving." I picked up my bag, pausing at the door but not turning around. The moment the door closed, I leaned against the wall, finally sinking to the floor. Just then, a text message popped up on my phone screen, from the hospital. I opened it. The words that met my eyes felt like a bucket of ice water, drenching me from head to toe: "Ms. Evangeline Cheng, your test results are in. Late-stage pancreatic cancer. Please admit yourself for treatment as soon as possible."