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

by Holly Black

“For a moment,” he says, “I wondered if it wasn’t you shooting bolts at me.” I make a face at him. “And what made you decide it wasn’t?” He grins up at me. “They missed.”

“If you’re the sickness, I suppose you can’t also be the cure.”

I like him better than I’ve ever liked anyone and that of all the things he’s ever done to me, making me like him so much is by far the worst.

It occurs to me that maybe desire isn’t something overindulging helps. Maybe it is not unlike mithridatism; maybe I took a killing dose when I should have been poisoning myself slowly, one kiss at a time.

“She didn’t have to command me, Jude. She didn’t have to use any magic. I trust you. I trusted you.”