Stories can justify anything. It doesn’t matter if the boy with the heart of stone is a hero or a villain; it doesn’t matter if he got what he deserved or if he didn’t. No one can reward him or punish him, save the storyteller. And she’s the one who shaded the tale so we’d feel whatever way we feel about him in the first place.
But for a moment it felt good to be awful, like looking down on the world from some great height.
You hate the Folk.” Taryn’s eyes flash as she spins her sword in an elegant strike. “You never cared about Locke. He was just another thing to take from Cardan.
I can feel the moment he gives in and gives up, pulling me to him despite the threat of the knife. He kisses me hard, with a kind of devouring desperation, fingers digging into my hair.
And that means Madoc isn’t just trying to take Cardan’s throne. He’s trying to take mine.
I have trained every day to be dangerous, and he is entirely in my power, yet I’m the one who is afraid.
I always have a plan,” she said, rising her eyebrows. “Sometimes, even, a scheme. You should be taking lessons from me.
You were mad at me for lying to you. Don’t lie to us now.
It’s the kind of thing you like. The wicked are slain, with swords no less. Vengeance is had. Boldness is rewarded. But what about all those girls, all those obedient girls who trusted and loved and wed and died? Weren’t they bold, too?
That’s your problem in a nutshell. You’re judgmental. Everyone makes mistakes. They trust the wrong people. They fall in love. Not you, though. And that’s why it’s so hard to ask you for forgiveness.
It had a pale body and crept on all fours, with claws as long as one of her fingers.
I know what you did,” he drawled, voice low, not at all sounding like he was asking a question. “Wicked girl. Yet you let your sister take the brunt of my ire. That wasn’t very nice, was it?
When a man tells you he’s going to hurt you, believe it. They always warn you and they’re always right.
There is only now. There is only tomorrow and tonight and now and soon and never.
I am not drinking that,” Jasper said. “I am a deWinter. We do not froth.
I am going to kill you,” Tamara said very calmly. “I am going to sort your guts into piles.
We die. Think of us like shooting stars, brief but bright.
We’re not sorting sand because of Call. We’re sorting sand because of me. – Tamara.
Oh for goodness sake. Why do boys always have to talk about their feelings all the time? It’s so gross. – Tamara.
La lealtad y el amor no se pueden exigir.