When we kissed, it didn't matter that I had been a wolf hours ago, or that I would be a wolf again. It didn't matter that a thousand snares were laid for us as soon as we left this moment. All that mattered was this: our noses touching, the softness of his mouth, the ache inside me.

Grace. I held on to that name. If I kept that in my head, I would be OK. Grace. I was shaking, shaking; my skin peeling away. Grace. My bones squeezed, pinched, pressed against my muscles. Grace. Her eyes held me even after I stopped feeling her fingers gripping my arms. Sam," she said. "Don't go.

Shhhhhh, shhhhhh, says the sea, but I don't believe her.

My wolf was a cute guy and he was holding my hand. I could die happy.

He sounded absolutely miserable. “Are you ever going to speak to me?

It was mint and memories and the past and the future and she felt as if she’d done this before and already she longed to do it again.

- Tears don't become us. - What becomes us? - Action.