Mortals don’t see the fey. Donia smiled wryly: if they did, Keenan would never have convinced any of them to trust him.
She was afraid, but she couldn’t just sit around waiting for someone to save her. She had to try to save herself, try to figure it out.
Family isn’t only blood.
He would, in essence, be the person that he was assigned to embody as his cover – and he’d enjoy it. That was the trick, finding the pleasure in it.
An armed fool could be more dangerous than an experienced shooter.
Do you like it?” Bananach whispered. “How they want to eat you alive? You took away the last king’s mortal. You make the new king mourn for both his mortals.
I see humanity’s flaws, but I see the goodness too.
Creative vision creates art” – he motioned around the gallery – “that shows the rest of the world a new angle. That’s a beautiful thing.
Nature abhors a vacuum... !!
It was ridiculous that things outside a person’s control could make others hate you. The nature of your blood wasn’t a choice, but humanity had a long history of killing, imprisoning, or fearing others for their race or religion.
Had they not wounded her, she’d be inaccessible to him. Had she not resisted the darkness so successfully, she’d not be strong enough to handle what he was about to do to her. She’d been damaged, but not irreparably. Fragmented and strong, the perfect mix for him.
The fae were known to stand by their word – their literal word, but still, it was better than humanity, which could be treacherous for so many foolish, selfish reasons.
Some people worked well with daily discipline, but she’d always been more of a need-a-deadline or consumed-by-vision artist.
Sometimes there’s power in the act; sometimes there’s strength in words.
Her mind flashed odd images – sharks swimming toward her, cars careening out of control in her path, fangs sinking into her skin, shadowy wings curling around her in a caress. Somewhere in her mind she knew she needed to step away from him, but she didn’t, couldn’t. She’d felt the same way when she’d first seen him: like she’d follow him wherever he wanted. It wasn’t a feeling she liked. Irial.
Absently, she wondered if finding one’s place in the world always felt like this, as if an audible click could be heard.
The touch of chaos in the order – art required that.
Being home always made her feel like she was walking on a high wire, waiting for a gust of wind to knock her to the ground. The.
She was his only anchor in a sea of madness.
There was nothing wrong with progress, with the evolution of a society, with developments in technology, but when avarice directed progress, the natural order of a community was destroyed.