The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

by V.E. Schwab

“Are you serious?” “I know,” she says with a laugh, “hard to believe I already own this one in Greek but—” He rocks back on his heels. “You are serious.”

“I remember you.” Three words, large enough to tip the world. I remember you.

“I see someone who cares,” she says slowly. “Perhaps too much. Who feels too much. I see someone lost, and hungry. The kind of person who feels like they’re wasting away in a world full of food, because they can’t decide what they want.”

“Addie,” he whispers against her throat. “Addie.” The kisses trail over her collar. “Addie.” Her stomach. “Addie.” Her hips.

“Because you are mine.” Addie twists free. “I was never yours, Luc,” she says, turning away. “Not in the woods that night. And not when you took me to bed. You were the one who said it was just a game.” “I lied.” The words, a knife. “You loved me,” he says. “And I loved you.”