I’ve been dead for seven years, that’s as warm as they get.

The trees called to me, urging me to abandon what I knew and vanish into the oncoming night. It was a desire that had been tugging me with disconcerting frequency these days.

Nothing had changed. Nothing.

She kissed me harder, breath huffing into my mouth, and bit my lip. Oh, hell that was amazing. I growled before I could stop myself.

Would we be so enamored with dystopian fiction if we lived in a culture where violent death was a major concern? It wouldn't be escapism.

Sharing revelations is easier when it doesn't matter.

His heart hurt with the wanting of it, the hurt no less painful for being difficult to explain.