Killing your rival doesn’t guarantee happiness. Sometimes it ruins any chance you have of it instead. Memories of dead men hold far more power than the annoyances of living ones.

...you don't care because you're all that and I'm just an artery in a dress.

No matter what I think about this, Leila, you're my daughter, so you are not walking down that aisle alone.

All I'm saying is that sooner of later, you'll have to come to terms with yourself. You can't wish away the vampire in you, and you shouldn't keep atoning for it. You should figure out who you are and what you need, and then don't apologize for it. Not to me, to your mum, or to anyone.

I told you once before,” I said, the words husky from remembrance. “Everyone holds their sins close to their skin.” Fangs gleamed for an instant before Vlad bit into his wrist, pooling up two deep crimson holes. “Then come,” he said, holding it out. “And taste mine.

The sheer splendor of the sight made my chest tighten and tears sting my eyes. All the darkness lately made it easy to forget the world contained more than people trying to hurt other people. It had beauty, too, if you knew where to look--and remembered to open your eyes.

Good. If you checked your e-mail every five minutes, or keep texting and Tweeting in the middle of our conversation, I might snap your neck out of sheer principle.