Cress (The Lunar Chronicles, #3)

by Marissa Meyer

“You can help me pick out a tiara when we’re done saving the world.”

Because if there was one thing Cress knew about heroes, it was that they could not resist a damsel in distress.

And she was nothing if not in distress.

“Consider yourself lucky that it will be quick.” “I always consider myself lucky.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said again, his tone cutting off her argument. “You sound like Cinder. She always blames herself for the stupidest things. The war is her fault. Scarlet’s grandmother is her fault. I bet she’d take responsibility for the plague too, if she could.”

“Captain,” she murmured. “I think I’m in love with you.”

“Don’t tell me it took you two whole days to realize that. I must be losing my touch.”

“Do you think you could ever love me back?” “Cress, this is sweet, but aren’t I the first guy you’ve ever met? Come on, up you go.”

“You’ve probably told lots of girls you loved them.” “Well, yeah, but I would have reconsidered if I’d known you were going to hold it against me.”

“Cress. Look at me. Are you looking at me?” “Mm-hmm,” she mumbled.

Thorne hesitated. “I don’t believe you.” Sighing, she pried her head up so she could peer at him through the curtain of chopped hair. “I’m looking at you.” He crouched close to her and felt for her face. “I promise, I will not let you die without being kissed.” “I’m dying now.” “You are not dying.” “But—”

“I will be the judge of when you are dying, and when that happens, I guarantee you will get a kiss worth waiting for. B...

“Do you promise?” He nodded. “I promise.”

Shuddering at the pain that awaited her, she braced herself and held her hands out to him. The world tilted as he hoisted her up and she stumbled, but Thorne held her until she was steady.

“Your fever might be from an infection.” He handed her the last bottle of water, now half full. “Or you’re dehydrated. Drink all of that.”

“All of it,” said Thorne.

She tried to call up comforting daydreams. A soft bed, a worn blanket. Sleeping in well past the sunrise, in a softly lit room where flowers grew outside the windowsill. Waking up in Thorne’s arms. His fingers stroking the hair off her brow, his lips pressing a good-morning kiss against her temple …

Thorne didn’t comment when she slipped and landed on her knees. He just picked her up and set her back on her feet. He said nothing when her pace slowed to a mere crawl, so long as they didn’t stop. His presence was reassuring—never impatient, never harsh.

“You’re awfully sweet, Cress. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She was a girl. A living girl, smart and sweet and awkward and unusual, and she was worth far more than they could ever realize.

“If you honestly believe that,” said Thorne, stowing the gun again, “then you really don’t recognize true value when you see it.”

While Cress’s thoughts continued to churn through the horrible things that could happen to her, she felt herself being suddenly spun around and dipped backward, a supportive

arm scooping beneath her back. She yelped and caught herself on Thorne’s shoulder. Then he was kissing her.

Warmth overtook her and Cress closed her eyes. She thought her arms wanted to wrap around his neck, but her

whole body was vibrating and dizzy and she could barely keep her fingers clutched around the fabric of his shirt.

“Cress, do me a favor.” He twirled her around so that her back was against him—she was beginning to feel like a satellite being constantly spun out of orbit,

but she had no time to think as Thorne settled his arm on her shoulder. “Make sure I don’t shoot anyone we like.”

“Don’t. Open. My control panel,” she said. Releasing Thorne, she shut the plate in her head.

“Then stop going comatose on me!”

Now he was the Carswell Thorne who had given her strength in the desert. Who had come for her when she was kidnapped. Who had kissed her when hope was lost and death was imminent.

Maybe there isn’t such a thing as fate. Maybe it’s just the opportunities we’re given, and what we do with them. I’m beginning to think that maybe great, epic romances don’t just happen. We have to make them ourselves.”

you and your band of misfits!