“He's probably out there in the hallway right now, composing bad poetry in his head." Michi cleared her throat, her voice taking on a breathless lilt:"Pale Fox's Daughter,Her cherry lips haunt my dreams.Something, something, breasts...”

“Your mother’s coming,” he said.“I know—she probably heard us arguing. Do something!”“What?”“Anything!”“Fine!” He grabbed her around the waist, dragged her body flush against his, and ducked his head. His lips crushed hers as his hands wrapped around her tightly so they were plastered against each other, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, breasts to chest.”

“But Beckett never flinched. She felt his throat vibrate as he sighed her name with relief. He tilted his head back until it rested on hers.“Don’t ever die in my head again. Please, never again,” he told her, his voice raspy.”

“He felt Death reaching out to him. But all of a sudden there was something else, too: words. Words that relieved the pain, cooled his brow, and spoke of love, nothing but love... It was his daughter's voice, and the White Women withdrew their pale hands as if they had burned themselves on her love.”

“I love you in such a greedy way, I’m guiltyabout it.” She tilted her head back as he moved his lips to her throat.“Guilty is for crimes. Always is for love.”

“Startled, he loosed his grasp and she pulled free. He clutched her arm, but she spun around and pressed her mouth to his. His lips were rough, chapped. She felt the sting of fangs against her bottom lip. He made a sharp sound in the back of his throat and closed his eyes. Mouth opening under hers. The smell of him- of cold, damp stone- made her head swim. One kiss slid into another and it was perfect, was exactly right, was real.”