And now here he was in my kitchen. Smelling like apple pies and looking at me with a direct seriousness that made him even cuter. The bruising spreading up the side of his face had halted, and under it he was very pretty. Not jock-pretty, or the hurtful kind of pretty that tells you a guy is too busy taking care of his royal self to think about you.

No problem, Goth Boy. First one's free.

I looked like a ghost. And I should know. I’ve seen a few.

Some days, a killing spree seems like a good idea.

Really, I scolded myself, you should have known that you'd end up in a stone dungeon with no facilities. That's how these things always end up, isn't it?

What do you say when someone takes on a really bad ass, murdering sucker for you? There just aren't words for that.

Besides, the normal people here wouldn’t see it. That was what “different” meant. It’s just another word for lonely.