Never the Roses

Well, and his library was terribly seductive.

You drive me mad,” he says through clenched teeth. “I know you’re dangerous. I know you’re trouble. And still—” “And still what?” I demand. His hands fist at his sides. “And still I want you.

My purpose should be abundantly clear. I wanted your books.” “That can’t be the only reason!” he exploded, losing his own fiery temper in the face of her col composure, the fireballs on his fists sending sparks in his agitation. “Can’t it?’ she asked, tracking the trail of sparks with idle interest, completely uncowed.

My heart isn’t broken,” she finally replied, pondering that this should be the subject of the first—perhaps only?—conversation she’d had with the keeper of spells and wisdom. “Isn’t it?” “I have never been in love, thus my heart is intact.” “Is that the only way hearts are broken?

loneliness cut the deepest when one was surrounded by people.

Two could play this game of pretend flirtation.

She couldn’t simultaneously exist as the woman who valued her own life so little that she decorated her own bier daily and as a sorceress willing to kill to save that life.