Chapter Text
Holding hands with Belladonna was like holding the hands of a marble statue, slick and flawless, but cold as snow.
However, holding hands with Roslyn was like holding a warm handful of sand fresh off the beach, slightly burning your fingers from contact from the sun, but you enjoyed the blissful warmth.
Their hands melded together perfectly, the shapes, a slender and sharp meets a freckled and soft, their scars matched like puzzle pieces. Bella's ghastly fingernails, reaching about 5 inches long of glossy black polish rested gently against the tips of Roslyn's fingers, close to harming her but never going in for the kill.
The girl rested her head against Belladonna's slumped shoulder, quite the descendant of the Grim Reaper she was, causing a smirk to rise on Bella's painted lips. The girl was hers.
