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.

“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.”

We stumble back to the low couch. He leans me against the cushions, and I pull him down over me. His expression mirrors my own, surprise and a little horror.

“Ominous,” I say. “It seems I have a singular taste for women who threaten me.”

Only under the water can I admit that I almost died and that I was terrified and that I wish there was someone to whom I could tell all that. I hold my breath until there’s no more breath to hold.

“Yes, my sweet villain, my darling god. I will be as sober as a stone carving, just as soon as I can.” And with that, he kisses me on the mouth.