MEDINA POV
For years after I’d been turned I had been a disaster in high heels and stolen leather jackets, all teeth and rage and chemical edges, because hunger had not been the only thing left inside me after that parking lot, after the pain and the violence and the waking up in a body that no longer answered to the same laws. I had chased everything that felt like a spike, everything that climbed high enough and fast enough to drown out the emptiness after, the screaming absence, the cold. Blood. Adrenaline. Men stupid enough to think danger in a pretty package was still pretty. Drugs when blood was not enough. Fights when drugs were not enough. Speed, noise, music so loud it shook my bones and made me almost believe I still had a heartbeat.
I had gone down every ugly road with my eyes
