“Her lips pursed. My palms went damp. Her fangs were out, as pointed and delicate as little bone daggers. "That’s disappointing, Solange."I was going to die because I couldn’t embroider roses on a pillow.”

“Oh yeah, that’s the one who kept watching me as if she was waiting for me to grow fangs and try to eat her. I couldn’t help it—I used my claws to scratch my nose. Her eyes almost popped out of their sockets.”

“We couldn’t make love, unfortunately, because she was dead. I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re wondering. She died long before I was born, and that’s probably the biggest mistake of my life.”

“I still couldn’t look at her. Scared that if I did, I would attack her. And by attack, I mean maul her face with my lips.”

“We went through all the usual exchanges dictated by Hollywood and polite society. She tried to scream and bite the palm of my hand, and I told her to be quiet because I wasn't going to hurt her unless she shouted. She shouted and I hurt her. Pretty standard stuff, really.”

“The little ball went up, then down, then up in his palm. My inner golden retriever couldn’t look away.”