[She is tempted to scratch at him, press her nails against his soft palms making half-moons until he winces and lets go. But she doesn't. She's too stuck in those dark corners now, tugged far away from the world she knows and the afterlife she is beginning to understand. Adrift.]

[Her eyes slide up, catch his; she sighs, and tips her head to one side, like she's thinking. But there's nothing to think about. He's right. She hates his rightness like she hates the concept of evil, like she hates pain, like she hates fear. Like she hates Will. Like she loves him.]

Define 'this'. I'm not a mindless hunter. I'm not a beast. I'm more than I look, not less. But you have to define it.