Using your own time to make someone else’s life better is, like, the nicest thing you can do for anybody.

Like sheep, sidhe-seers herd by nature, until you *want* them to go somewhere. Then they're all fluffy bottoms and broken.

And now she was just Gabby, currently staying in a dreamy, magnificent castle in Scotland with a Fae prince who did all kinds of non-nasty, non-inhuman things like tearing up lists of names, and returning tadpoles to lakes, and saving people's lives. Not to mention kissing with all the otherwordly splendor of a horny angel.

Get back on the bike and tell me where to go." "I'll tell you where to go," I muttered sourly, and he laughed.

Barrons was powerful, broodingly good-looking, insanely wealthy, frighteningly intelligent, and had exquisite taste, not to mention a hard body that emitted some kind of constant low-level charge. Bottom line: He was the stuff of heroes. And psychotic killers.

When he kisses me again, the last part of me that could stand myself dies.

Life is too hard, too much to handle. Nobody told me there’d be days like these. How could nobody tell me there’d be days like these? How could they let me grow up like that—happy and pink and stupid?