When the Moon Hatched (Moonfall, #1)

by Sarah A. Parker

Preparation is my armor. Don it or die.

The harder you care, the more fragile everything seems.

Survival’s funny. Some wear it like a whisper, others like a scream. Mine’s a scorched skeleton of flame-forged rage that keeps me upright.

You can reshape a turd an infinite number of times, but it’s still a turd. It still stinks.

I think she saw me, surrounded by the mulched bodies of freshly slain folk who’d come to hunt me down, and decided broken things make the sharpest weapons . . . so long as you fetter them to yourself so they don’t fly away.

It doesn’t matter how much of my skin is smoothed or how deep he kneels at my feet. I’m still an assassin marked for execution come aurora rise, and he’s still a tyrant king.

“Then why a moon?” I cast my gaze forward again, tap-tap-tapping my foot to the soothing tune in my head. “Because they fall.”

Drenched in the smell of leather and the heady blend of his intoxicating scent, this tightening feeling low in my belly yearns for something every other part of me is utterly opposed to, and I consider whether it’s prudent to ask this male if he’d like to fuck before I slit his throat . . .