A naked blade sheathed in velvet, that was Raphael's voice.

No more chances, Golden Eyes. You’re mine and I’ll draw blood to enforce my claim.

Remember that,” he groaned. “And tell everyone you know.

Contact would hurt, might be fatal, and yet she couldn’t stop herself. Obsession or compulsion, she didn’t know, but she did know that before this was over, she’d either end up in Dmitri’s bed . . . or one of them would bleed darkest red.

You’ll have to be my conscience.” He knew his flaws, and he knew the parts of him that were irrevocably broken. “Mine isn’t going to grow back.

I want no blood from you--not until we're both sweaty and naked and you're screaming my name.

You have the power to tear me to pieces, to wound me so deep and true that I'll never recover. What Rissa's death did to the boy I was? You have the ability to do a thousand times worse to the man I've become.