More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
The tough skin around my upturned fangs pulls into a new position—a smile. It hurts.
“You like to call me ‘little human,’” she finally says, “but I’m six-two and carry fifty-pound bags of clay on the regular. There is nothing little about me.” My frown deepens, and I feel the harsh lines between my brows. “Little things are precious, and you are precious to me, so you are little,” I answer firmly. My logic is sound.
