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For every girl who can love a villain, so long as he’s handsome, hung, and good at groveling.
A Raven. Nothing but warlocks and witches with magic as black as their plumes, Father always said, and blood like pitch in their corrupted hearts. They were wayward beings. Wretched. Corrupted. Vile.
“If a wife cannot speak ill of her husband, then what joys are there left for her in marriage?”
“Life marks us all in one way or another.” Sebian dunked the cloth into the water. “The only scars truly ugly are usually the ones on the inside, anyway.”
“No matter how much you want to hate me, it’ll never measure up to the loathing my father clearly harbors for me. You think you rendered me worthless? Don’t flatter yourself, Malyr. I was born worthless.”
“A Khysal and a Brisden,” I murmured. “A union forever thwarted by a malign star.”
“Fated only to end in emotional tragedy.”
“Maybe we are truly fated only to end in emotional tragedy…” “Little dove,” his whisper came with a salty kiss to my lips before he straightened and placed his own by my ear, “love is tragedy.”
