I don't make sonic booms. I want a whip. I like the idea of walking around making sonic booms everywhere.

The illusions it had woven for me had taken place only in my head. The battle had been invisible to the naked eye, but the hard ones are.

If I entered a tropical beach, would I end up in Nazi Germany with my highly inconvenient black hair?

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.

Jericho Barrons just told me he loves me.

I turned around slowly, and looked up at him. He stiffened and sucked in a shallow breath. After a moment, he touched my cheek. "Such naked pain," he whispered. I turned my face into his palm and closed my eyes. His fingers threaded into my hair, cupped my head, and brushed the brand. It heated at his touch. His hand tightened at the base of my skull and squeezed, and he raised me slowly to my tiptoes. I opened my eyes and it was my turn to inhale sharply. Not human. Oh, no, not this man. "Never show it to me again." His face was cold, hard, his voice colder.

What is the greater good but tyranny’s chameleon?