I cannot kill him, she muttered to herself. I cannot kill him. I promised Bianka I'd stop at ten bodies a day, and I've already surpassed my quota for the fifth day in a row. I cannot kill him.

For gods' sake, Strider," Torin snapped. "Open your mouth and form some words. While you're at it, stop staring at the angel like he's a tasty treat.

We are so not breaking out the violins and pity partying.

Come on, baby.” Paris combed his fingers through her hair. “Look past my terrible personality and hideous looks and throw me a bone. Teach me how to woo you properly.” She snorted. “I’d argue the hideous looks part.” “But not the terrible personality? Ouch. That hurts, baby.

He reclined on a delightfully cushioned lounge in the sprawling ranch Paris had rented. In Dallas, Texas, of all places. Promiscuity had decked himself out, too, wearing a Stetson (weird), no shirt (understandable), unfastened jeans (smart) and cowboy boots (weird again). Dude looked ready to rustle cattle or something.

It shall be my pleasure to remedy it. First, it is not your strength or your speed that draws me. It's your...everything. Your laugh, your wit, your emotions and the way they change. Your courage, your sweetness, your near obsessive delight in cookies. Second, you are indeed a prize. You've made me want what no one else ever had. A communion of bodies." -Zacharel to Annabelle

So, your saying choices and destiny shape the course of our lives? "I think so, yes. It's just easier to blame fate for all of the mistakes.