So what are you really wearing?" The words left her mouth before she could consider them. She winced. He didn't seem to mind; in fact, he flashed her one of his brief smiles. "And if I said nothing at all?" "Then I would point out that sometimes, if you look at something out of the corner of your eye, you can see right through glamour," she returned. That brought surprised laughter. "What a relief to us both then that I am actually wearing exactly what you saw me in this afternoon. Although one might point out that in that outfit, your last concern should be my modesty.

I thought you needed to be tougher. But I've been thinking that protecting somebody by hurting them before someone else gets the chance isn't the kind of protecting that anybody wants.

Sometimes,” Sam says, “I can’t tell when you’re lying.” “I never lie,” I lie.

I thought you were her knight, but you have become only her woodsman--taking little girls into the forest to cut out their hearts.

You are the best kind of killer, Cassel Sharpe, the kind that never has blood on his hands. The kind that never has to sicken at the sight of what he's done, or come to like it too much.

You can break a thing, but you cannot always guide it afterward into the shape you want.

It's not that I don't know that it's a bad idea. It's that, lately, bad ideas have a particular hold over me.