He's never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.

There’s a hollow where he used to be, and it echoes with self-imposed loss.

He went in, lean and deadly, and ended the creature with a lightning-fast spike of his blade. It shrieked, likely altering the rest. The death call carried like a mournful song.

Stalkers lips curled into a sneer. "You won't make a move without him, huh? That's embarrassing." "No," I said softly. "It just hurts because you wish it was you.

He’s worth fighting for, but I won’t change who I am for any man. No more than he should alter himself to suit me.

As I dive between the legs of a big Gunnar, I see Mair wind up and slam her shockstick hard as she can between the V of another guy’s thighs. Falling, he makes a noise that I can’t say I’ve heard a human utter before, sort of like I imagine a puppy would sound being put through a juicer.

I always have someplace else I’d rather be, even if I don’t know where that is, yet.