“Why don't you write a story for me?”“Really?” I squeaked. “Um, what about?”“Well, something with a good guy and a bad guy and a hot chick.”…”Okay, anything else?”“The hot chick has to have pretty blonde hair and kickass blue eyes,”….”And the good guy is a musically talented man who is incredibly sexy...?”He grinned and kissed me. “Not at all – that's the bad guy. And I don't care if he wins or loses – that doesn't make a difference.” He shifted and hovered over me, kissing me again – and again and again and again...His lips lingered over mine as he whispered: “I just want the bad guy to get the girl.”

“Boy, did he depress me! I don't mean he was a bad guy- he wasn't. But you don't have to be bad guy to depress somebody- you can be a good guy and do it.”

“Let me tell you how the story ends, where the good guys die and the bad guys win. It doesn't matter how many friend you make, but the graffite they write on your grave.”

“Why were you watching me change?" I explain. "Uh, 'cause I'm a guy?" He flips the pillow and slaps it, fluffing it. Then he rolls over and closes his eyes again.”

“Shh!” the guy beside me hissed again.“Blame him,” I told the guy, pointing at Patch. The guy craned his neck back. “Listen,” he said, facing me again. “If you don’t quiet down, I’ll get security.”“Fine, go get security. Tell them to take him away,” I said, again signaling Patch. “Tell them he wants to kill me.”“I want to kill you,” hissed the guy’s girlfriend,”

“I know,” Aren says. “But I wanted to apologize. I don’t want Taltrayn to convince you I’m the bad guy.”At that, I give a short laugh. “You are the bad guy, Aren.”He frowns, and I realize he’s taking my words the wrong way.“What I mean is you’re the . . . well, the rebel. Kyol’s the good guy. He’s made mistakes, yes, but he loves me.”He cocks his head to the side. His gaze makes my skin tingle. The step he takes toward me is hesitant, careful, and when his silver eyes peer down at me, I stop breathing. His lips are so close. I remember the way they felt pressed against mine. I remember his taste, the heat of his edarratae.The smallest distance separates us when he whispers, “You don’t think I’m in love with you?”“I . . .”