Rose once told me about this poem she’d read. There was this line, ‘If your eyes weren’t open, you wouldn’t know the difference between dreaming and waking.’ You know what I’m afraid of? That someday, even with my eyes open, I still won’t know.
Richelle MeadBlake smiled radiantly. ʺMay I call you Vasilisa?ʺ ʺYou can call me Lissa.ʺ ʺYou can also,ʺ added Christian, ʺlet go of her hand now.
Richelle MeadRose? Is that you?" I peered behind him. Lissa. "What are you doing here?" "What are you doing here?" She asked "Ladies, ladies" he said teasingly. "No need to fight over me." I glared. "We're not.
Richelle MeadI don’t know how you do it. You aren’t even blond. I mean, maybe a little, but mostly you’re a brunette. I just don’t see guys going for that.” “Yeah, well, some people are into kinky stuff, I guess.
Richelle Mead