“I flash him number seventeen of my thirty-five Looks of Death.”

“He sees her like I do: at seventeen, twenty, thirty. Superimposed over the fourteen-year-old, he sees the woman she'll become.And he's staking claim.Over. my. Dead. Fucking. Body.And I can't die.”

“He gives me a look. I'm not even looking at him and I can feel it.”

“I hammered him with my fists. He just stood and took it. He didn't suffer graciously, he looked pissed off to no end. But he let me hit him. And he didn't hit me back.”

“I didn’t ask. Some things are better left unsaid.He looked at me and I shivered. I never get enough of him. Never will.He lives.I breathe.I want. Him. Always.Fire to my ice. Ice to my fever.Later we would go to bed, and when he rose over me, dark and vast and eternal, I’d know joy.”

“He looked at me and I shivered. I never get enough of him. Never will. He lives. I breathe. I want. Him. Always. Fire to my ice. Ice to my fever. Later we would go to bed, and when he rose over me, dark and vast and eternal, I'd know joy. Who Knew? Much later we might fly a couple of Hunters to the moon.”

“I was no longer sexually vulnerable to the death-by-sex Fae Prince. Jericho Barrons was my poison now.”