The Wicked King (The Folk of the Air, #2)

by Holly Black

“Kiss me again,” he says, drunk and foolish. “Kiss me until I am sick of it.”

“I hate you,” I whisper before he can speak. He tilts my face to his. “Say it again,” he says as the imps comb my hair and place the ugly, stinking crown on my head. His voice is low. The words are for me alone.

there’s a fine line between love and hate my dear jude