“I don't get it. There's nothing to see. Everything's dead."

“Eros." She smacks my arm lightly with her free hand. "That's very glass half-full of you. The garden isnt dead. It's sleeping."

I eye what appear to be bare sticks situated on the left side of the cobblestone path. "Looks dead to me." For someone who deals death on occasion, one would think you'd be better able to identify it." She says it so casually, as if she doesn't recognize the barbs attached to each word.

I'm a killer, and she needs to remember it. "Psyche."

"It's a reminder:." She's not looking at me. She's studying the sticks as if they hold the secrets of the universe. *Nothing lasts forever. Not the hibernation over the winter, but not the beautiful blooms of summer, either There are seasons to everything.”

it's the silence that comforts me. It’s not strained. I have the strange feeling that Eros would be perfectly content occupying the same room for hours without talking if he had nothing to say. He might pretend to be the pretty playboy, but he doesn't run his mouth for the sole purpose of hearing himself talk.

I've always liked silence. I think it comes from living with three sisters and a mother who are all talkers. They talk when they are happy, sad, angry, or even bored. No one in my family would be Content to eat a meal without filling the room with some kind of running commentary. There's a comfort in that, but when my stress level reaches a certain point, it becomes just one more thing t weighs on me. I like that Eros doesn't have the same urge. lt makes this space feel almost safe.

I never expected to get married. It’s not that I have an issue with monogamy, though I've only flirted with it in the past. Something as relatively permanent as marriage is more than just a relationship. It's more than sex, more than moving someone into your space and figuring out how to share it. It's a partnership. An alliance.

The first and most vital rule of the internet is to never read the comments. That is exponentially more important for anyone who doesn't fit the traditional views on beauty or is marginalized in any way, but the truth is that even the thinnest, most gorgeous models get people being terrible in their comments. Trolls will be trolls.

I sit back and rub my hand over my chest. Now is not the time for doubts or guilt or any of that bullshit. I've done worse to nicer people, all because they got in my mother's way or she decided they were threatening her position. The public might think murder is the greater evil, but they haven't seen a young up-and-coming person have everything stripped away. Their beauty, their status, the respect of their peers. It's so fucking easy to dismantle someone's life if you have the right information, the right resources.

It never used to be like this. I only went after people who deserved it, people who actively threatened my mother. I was a hunter of monsters, of people who intended to harm the only family I have in this world. Until one day I looked up and realized I'm the biggest monster of all. I'd sacrificed too much, had erased too many lines for morality to be anything more than a theory.

I pause in the middle of sorting through the dresses in the rack in front of me. None of them are right. They're all pretty in a pale sort of way, but this designer has a nasty habit of merely adding inches to their plus sizes instead of actually taking into account how different my curves are from a size two. I had heard they'd gotten better with the new spring line, but obviously I was misinformed.

Personal experience taught me early that it's better to blend in than to stand up in front of a crowd and make a target of yourself.

“I’ve done little to earn this woman's trust. Yes, I didn't kill her, but that's the literal bare minimum a person should do-“

This is like the oral sex version of brunch, like he plans to linger and enjoy himself, and I don't know how to feel about that.

I want her chained to me, and I'll rip out the throat of anyone who thinks they can take her away.

"It's the blood of the last pretty girl who asked too many questions."

“Psyche." She twists her hair around one finger, her brows pulling together into a frown. “Yes?” “I…” Fuck why is this so hard? I clear my throat and try again. “I need you tonight.” Her expression softens. “Okay.” That nearly makes me laugh; I would if there was enough air in this room to fill my lungs. “You’re not going to ask me what I need from you before agreeing?” “No.” She gives me a small smile. “Why? Should I be terrified?” If she knew what was going on in my head, the way I want to tie her to me in every way possible, she might be. I rub the back of my hand over my chest. “I… want to hold you tonight.”

I love her.

"Is it your blood?" Eros stops next to me, his blue eyes showing no emotion at all. "It's the blood of the last pretty girl who asked too many questions."

"Why help Aphrodite's pet monster?" "Even monsters need help sometimes, Eros."