Weirdly, an image of Adrian’s Love painting came back to me. I thought of the jagged red streak, slashing through the blackness, ripping it apart. Staring at Jill and her inconsolable pain, I suddenly understood his art a little bit better.

When he finished, he drank from the cup. Everyone else did too, so I followed suit. And nearly choked to death. It was like fire in liquid form. It took every ounce of strength I had to swallow it and not spray it on those around me. "Wh...what is this?" I asked, coughing. Viktoria grinned. "Vodka." I peered at the glass. "No, it isn't. I've had vodka before." "Not Russian vodka." Apparently not.

I have to get back there." I said to Adrian. "Into that door." He arched an eyebrow. "What, like sneaking in? How very black ops of you. And oh, you know— dangerous and foolish." "I know." I said, surprised at how calm I sounded as I admitted that. "But I have to know something, and this may be my only chance." "Then I'll go with you in case that guy comes back," he said with a sigh. "Never let it be said Adrian Ivashkov doesn't help damsels in distress.

You're beautiful, Roza. So beautiful it hurts me.

The future of our relationship hinged on advice from a fifteen-year old girl, a probably untrue story from a one-eyed Chihuahua trainer, and me unromantically – yet skillfully – kissing you on top of silverware and china?

That was Sydney Sage," said Lissa. "I thought they were all in West Virginia. Why isn't she with Rose?" "That," said Abe darkly, "is an excellent question." "Because they were apparently kidnapping Jill Mastrano in Detroit," said Christian. "Which is weird. But not the craziest thing I can think of Rose doing.

You did not just say that. I have a feeling we're on the verge of hugging and coming up with cute nicknames for each other.