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

by Holly Black

There is only now. There is only tomorrow and tonight and now and soon and never.

He hates you. Even if he wants you, he hates you. Maybe he hates you the more for it. After a moment, his eyes flutter closed. His voice falls to a whisper, as though he’s talking to himself. “If you’re the sickness, I suppose you can’t also be the cure.”

He doesn’t try to kiss me, of course. He hasn’t been shot at, isn’t delirious with drink, isn’t filled with enough self-loathing.