"I’m a writer, you see…“ Her voice soft and open with a type of vulnerability that can only be seen in the sincere.

"The world is my playground and my prison. It is rarely enough, so I am left to create my own. Words are my only limitation, and luckily my vocabulary can always increase.” Her gaze met his and held it with a feminine intensity that enraptured him long before he realized it.

“I’m a writer you see, and above all else that means I have ink in my veins and words on my skin.” That’s when he knew, he’d never be free.

Next Chapter: Idea