“It’s not—” Zhou Zishu cut off his words, slapping at Wen Kexing’s graceful fingers like he would a fly. “It doesn’t hurt.” He was lying, and Wen Kexing might even know he was lying, but that didn’t matter. Zhou Zishu wanted that pain. It was a reminder that he was still alive, that his skin still sang with sensation, and that he could feel anything beyond the cloying drain of the Nails in his chest.
Пришла из издательства детская книжка, которую я переводила. Особенно радуюсь тому, что переводила я её с французского. Канальи, я не забыла его с институтских времен, тысяча чертей)))
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