Metaphors. This was the cost of making out with an artist.

Rose is in red, But never in blue, Sharp as a thorn, Fights like one too.

Knowing I wasn't going anywhere, I frantically searched for some way to help her. A dark figure caught my eye. "Christian!" I yelled. He'd been staring at Lissa's retreating figure but glanced up at the sound of his name. One of my escorts shushed me and took my arm. "Be quiet." I ignored her. "Go after her," I called to Christian. "Hurry." He just sat there, and I suppressed a groan. "Go, you idiot!" My guardians snapped at me to be quiet again, but something inside of Christian woke up. Springing up from his lounging position, he tore off in the direction Lissa had traveled.

But all I could see was her. No skill of mine, no artist anywhere, could’ve immortalized how gorgeous she was. It was impossible to believe she’d ever had any doubts about her body. The firelight shone on her skin, golden and perfect, making her look like some radiant goddess of legend. I wanted to kneel before her and offer eternal obedience.

Different time, different place,” I said. “Things can change. People can change.

Do you love him?" There were only a few people in the world who could ask me such insanely personal questions without getting punched. Dimitri was one of them.

Mmm. O positive, my favorite.