Phoebe's POV
Harold's words sent warmth flooding through my chest, though I fought to keep my expression neutral. "Honestly, it wasn't so tough. You just have to be more ruthless than everyone else."
The ones who cowered from death usually met it first.
My heart clenched as Harold pulled my head against his chest. "Enough. Let's drop this topic."
I was still so young. Out of everything I could've mastered, I picked dancing with death.
I could see the doubt in his eyes, as if he were wondering if I was just spinning a sob story to tug at his heartstrings.
I buried myself deeper into Harold's embrace, a victorious grin spreading across my face. "So, are you done being mad?"
Harold exhaled heavily. "After painting yourself as such a tragic figure, how could I stay angry?"
Even though Harold recognized I was being manipulative on purpose, he couldn't resist. He was more concerned about the suffering I'd endured than demanding explanations.
