Enchantra (Wicked Games, #2)

by Kaylie Smith

“Love. Loathing. Same passion, different names,” he told her. “And how easily and swiftly the line can be blurred, don’t you think?”

Rowin advanced a step toward his brother, a dangerous smile playing on the edges of his lips. “And I won’t be showing you any mercy if you lay a finger on my wife.” A shiver went down Genevieve’s spine.

Before he could get in another jab, however, she reached out to grab the golden hoop in his lip and ripped it right through his flesh.

OUCH GIRL

“The light isn’t something you need to chase, Genevieve. The light is wherever you are,” he told her.

Genevieve leaned over to hiss at Rowin, “You killed him because he was going to hurt me?” “He touched my wife without permission,” he bit out. “I’d have killed him for less than that.

“It’s never easy to realize that the people who are supposed to protect us are the ones who can create the deepest scars.”

“I am not him,” Rowin snarled. “I want to find him and flay all the flesh from his body and set him on fire for what he did to you. Don’t ever compare me to him.”

“You’d be right. Mortals are lucky. You live, you love, you die. Living forever just means there’s infinite time for people to inflict pain on you.”

Genevieve bit her lip. “Do you think it’s possible to love someone after only a few days?” “We’re certainly capable of hating someone in a short period of time—on sight, even. I don’t see why love should be any different,” Sevin told her.

“If there’s no risk in life, I don’t think it’s worth the journey,”

“Shadows can only be seen in the presence of light,” he told her, the words agonized. “I worry when you leave, there will be no one left to see me.”

“And do you not like licorice or something? You look like you’re in pain.” He glared down at the bag. “Ophelia likes the red pieces, but they only come mixed with the black ones, from that candy store on Chartres Street. She always gets excited at the fact that we can split a bag, because she eats all the red ones—and I eat all the black.” “Except you clearly hate them,” Genevieve reasoned. “Something neither of us will ever tell her,” he said pointedly as he popped another one into his mouth. “Understood?”

I don’t think I’ve ever been in so much pain as I was in those minutes before your heart started beating again. But then it did and you woke up and you… did not recognize me. And that was nearly unbearable. It is a cruel thing. To be looked on as a stranger by the one who knows you best. It is cruel that I was given a taste of what my eternity could have been filled with—your smile, your pleasure, your humor—only to have it ripped away from me in seconds. It is cruel that if your memories never come back that it would only be fair to let you go. The problem is, Genevieve, that I can’t. That I never will.