“Her hair is smoldering. Her face was smudged with soot. She had a cut on her arms, her dress was torn, and she was missing a boot. Beautiful.”

“Don't die on me," she ordered. "You are not dying on me.""Yes, ma'am." He felt light-headed, but she was about the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Her hair was smoldering. Her face was smudged with soot. She had a cut on her arm, her dress was torn, and she was missing a boot. Beautiful.”

“It worried him. Like him, she had to be exhausted. She smelled like gasoline; her clothes were torn. She had a small white bandage on her forehead where the EMT had cleaned her cut. Dirt smudged her face, her arms, her legs. He knew she still didn't have any underwear, and for the first time, he felt bad about it. Real bad. He wanted to protect her, make her feel secure, keep her from harm—and all he'd done was lose her underwear and practically get her blown up.”

“There she stood. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her face was pale, almost snow-white. She probably hadn't slept, either. She was still wearing the same dress. Her hair looked like a bomb had gone off. She was beautiful.”

“Even her beauty had sharp edges. Her long ebony hair was cut like a razor blade. Her face was strong and fine.But her eyes. A milky green, they betrayed an air of vulnerability she seemed desperate to hide.”

“...Molly, at the rail, her wet hair matted down, her dress torn, watching Peter intently until she knew he saw her, then mouthing something... Fly, she was saying, Fly.“I CAN’T,” Peter shouted moving his arms helplessly. “I CAN’T, MOLLY!”