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I fell in love in that house. I nearly died there, too.
It’s to this place I now return, having fled twelve years ago after my mother’s death. Or murder. Depends on who you ask.
“It’s not creepy, it’s charming. You’ve been watching those crime documentaries again. We talked about that. It’s not good for your mental health.”
“Being chopped to bits wouldn’t be good for my mental health, either.”
Be careful. They already know you’re here.
“Never be ashamed of the things that make you different. That’s where your true power lies.”
“We’re Blackthorns. We antagonize people merely by existing. We’re different, and we always will be, no matter how we might try to pretend we’re not.”
“That men have never mattered much to the women of this family.”
“They matter well enough for what they’re useful for.”
“What about Bea’s father? You’ve never told us about him. Is he still in the picture?”
“No. We had different ideas about what fatherhood meant.”
I’d know Ronan Croft anywhere, in any lighting, even in the inky blackness at the bottom of the sea. You never forget your first love. Especially when he’s also your worst nightmare.
Ronan. His eyes, his scent, his mouth on my skin … I loved him with a desperation that felt like madness. No greater fool exists than a teenage girl ensnared in the trap of first love.
“I think if you were going for elegant Victorian beekeepers in mourning, you nailed it.”
The Blackthorn women have an uncanny ability to terrify people.
“Death is nothing to fear, sweet girl. Nature remakes everything she creates. We’re not finished when we die, we’re simply transformed into something better.”
“Life is a knife fight. Why should the afterlife be any different?”
“That’s just great. Thank you. I’m sure she’ll be discussing this in therapy for years to come.” “Don’t be ridiculous. Blackthorns don’t need therapy. We
make other people need therapy. Bea, put the knife in the caske...
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“What are those for?” “To pay the toll to the ferryman to cro...
This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
“He doesn’t take Visa. Just put everything in the
casket, honey, and we’ll deal with your mental trauma later.”
“I said, call it off.” She snaps, “I don’t know what you mean.” “The birds! They’re attacking me!”
“If you’re being bothered by wildlife, maybe you should try a different cologne.”
“Are we in the Mafia?”
“Okay, that’s untrue, but we’re definitely not mafiosi.” “We’re much more interesting,” says Esme dismissively.
“Some things only appear to die. There are more states of being than you can imagine.”
“Auntie D?” “Yes, darling?” “Was that Becca Campbell’s house?”
“Was it?” She turns her head and gazes out the window, her lips curving into a small, secretive smile.
“Husbands? The Blackthorn women are far too smart to fall for that old trap.”
It’s the Blackthorn way and has been for as long as anyone can remember: men are only tools, and love is only for fools.
His eyes are the color of pale arctic ice. They’re ringed in a thicket of dark lashes. His hair is thick and inky black, waving down from a widow’s peak nearly to his shoulders. His jaw is strong, his lips are full, his burning gaze promises both hell and redemption.
He’s the one who first taught me that the most beautiful things
in nature are those that will kill you the fastest.
“Ronan Croft.” “Maven Blackthorn. Is there some reason we’re being so formal?” “Yes. I prefer to pretend we never met. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, those eyes. Those lovely, spellcasting eyes. How they’ve haunted me. If only you knew the power they’ve always held over me. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so cruel, little witch.”
Twelve years with no contact from her. Not a single word. Twelve fucking years. An eternity.
She’s as alluring as ever. That soft, husky voice. Those luminous green eyes. The fierce individuality and unapologetic defiance that’s always marked her character.
There’s a part of me—twisted, selfish—that wants to punish her. Force myself into her house, her bed, her body. Make her submit and beg for forgiveness for leaving the way she did.
Maven. We’re not done, you and I. Not even close.
Like Dracula, Ronan Croft has an uncanny ability to appear wherever he likes as if manifesting from thin air.
“I don’t remember anything except that you’re the worst mistake I ever made. If I don’t put a bullet between your eyebrows while I’m here, it will be a miracle.” “Eight.”
“It’s the number of times we fucked. Eight.”
His pause is long enough to be uncomfortable. Then, his voice low and his gaze intense, he says, “Does our daughter know who her real father is?”
“An accidental sperm donor isn’t the same thing as a parent. And if I recall correctly, you weren’t feeling quite so paternal when I told you I was pregnant all those years ago.”
“Our daughter.” “Say that again. I dare you. Say it again, and I will shoot you dead right where you stand.”
“God, I regret I came home.” “I don’t. This is the most fun I’ve had in years.”
“It’s not unreasonable for a father to want to see his child. Aside from also being my legal right, that is.”
“I wanted her. I just didn’t know it then.”
“I searched for you, you know. For years, I’ve had the best private detectives looking for you. But it was as if you vanished. Outside Solstice, Maven Blackthorn doesn’t exist.”
