This Coven Won't Break (These Witches Don't Burn, #2)

by Isabel Sterling

I don’t even try to hide the satisfaction in my voice. Some twisted part of me delights in the fear in their eyes, in the way they scramble in the face of our power. Magic like this is a perversion of our gifts, but it’s one they forced on us.

PEOPLE ARE MUCH MORE agreeable when there are unconscious bodies on their floor.

Does murdering the people who want us dead make us villains, too?

“If you don’t let yourself feel all the terrible, scary, awful pieces of grief, your magic may never be yours again.”

A tiny, withered stem of hope tries to break the surface, but it’s been beaten down so many times, I don’t think it’ll ever fully rise again.

They take my silence for shock, and I let them assume.

Will Mom even have a body to bury?

Can’t we cure them of their hatred instead of killing them off?