These Hollow Vows (These Hollow Vows, #1)

by Lexi Ryan

Better to pray to deft fingers, to shadows and camouflage, than to the old gods. Better to steal than to starve.

I’ve spent the last nine years living by two rules: I don’t steal from those who give me honest work, and I don’t work for those who steal from me.

Whatever the losses of my day, whatever new penalties tomorrow’s missed payment will bring, I’m glad to be home.

All I truly want is to protect her, my sweet sister with her optimism and joy, who loves me even when I’m a hateful grump. I’m not sure I deserve her.

Personally, I don’t hope. Not ever. Hope is addictive, and you start relying on it. In a world this cruel, I won’t be caught needing a crutch.

The first time he smiled at me, it was as if my chest opened up, as if my heart were trying to reach out and grab him.

Could it hurt to give myself just a few moments to imagine a life where every day wasn’t a struggle, where I could live like these faeries—dancing and drinking wine, laughing over petty nonsense?

lift my chin. They can force me to my knees, but I will fight them before I bow to their king.

She’s missing Mother tonight. I am too, but my grief will only intensify hers, so I lock it up tight and brush her chestnut hair from her eyes.

The pain in my leg is so blinding, nausea rolls through me, but it’s nothing compared with the defeated ache in my chest. I am so unequipped to take on this vicious world.

I’ve always been too much of a night owl to care for mornings, but I’m so rested after a full night’s sleep that I feel almost optimistic.

I stare at that smooth skin on the inside of my wrist and frown. I like my scar. It’s a reminder of who I am, where I came from, and what I will sacrifice for the people I love. It represents the only truly good things about me.

I hate this conversation. I hate it because I can’t hide my feelings on this, and I hate that I have feelings on the subject at all.

Does he expect me to change the way I feel about everything just because he’s not who he pretended to be?

“She can trust him without forgiving him. They’re entirely separate emotions.”

but every reminder tests my convictions.

But I make a fist and concentrate on winding the power back into myself. I imagine it coiled in my gut, not dormant, but like a powerful snake—alert and ready to strike.

Smaller celebrations like this happen in the human realm, but I never bothered about them or understood why the masses would celebrate blessings in a world that seems to bless so few.

It is precious memory and missed opportunity. It is the bitter and the sweet.

“You were curled in the corner of the bed, completely absorbed in that book, as if it didn’t matter that you lived this brutal existence and had only a tiny room to call your own. It didn’t matter that you had to work so hard for everything. When you were reading, you were somewhere else. You were someone else.”

Library pixies that live among books and sing. I wonder if I ever could have hated faeries if I’d known such a thing existed.

The last thing I need to do is reveal what an impact he’s had on me since the first night we met. I think I’ll die with that secret, if for no other reason than to save myself the embarrassment if it turns out it was just a dream.

“After she left, I could still see the stars, but it seemed that fewer and fewer of them were for me. Wishes were for girls who had parents, for people who weren’t stuck in impossible contracts.

When Finn stands, his gaze locks on the hand I pulled away from him. “Abriella, every star in that sky shines for you.”

Part of my mind tells me this is an illusion. The house is gone. It can’t be here. But I can’t leave her. If I’m not the girl who runs into the fire to save her little sister, then I am nothing.

Sometimes the anger is too much and you let it make your insides ugly.

“Can’t you do the female thing?” I arch a brow. “The female thing?” He waves a hand. “You know, where you say the nice things and make her feel better even though she’s heartbroken and love’s a bitch?” “Oh, I . . . Why’s that a female thing?” He grunts. “You think I’m a good candidate for that job? I can’t even tell someone to have a good day without sounding like I secretly wish they’d die.”

“MAGIC TASTES LIKE RAINBOWS,” I say, swaying on my feet. “Gods above and below,” Pretha mutters.

you didn’t pull Pretha into the shower and beg her to touch you.” No. I’d very specifically wanted Finn, and he had endured my pathetic pleas. “If I had any taste at all, I would have,” I mutter.

and now I’m torn between warring kingdoms when I never wanted to feel allegiance to either.

Light, dark, light, dark. It’s like I’m being asked to choose—life and pain or relief and nothingness.

“Are you happy?” “I’m not sure I know how to be happy. It’s been so long since I’ve had the luxury.”

Puzzle pieces swirl in my head, weaving and shifting. Answers just out of my grasp.

They expect me to dress pretty and show up to be his queen. I am not a pretty thing to be manipulated. I am darkness, and the power rushing through my veins is stronger than ever. This is what it’s like to be fae and have magic. Magic is life.

His panic hums in my blood. He feels me, but he doesn’t see me. I see him, though. I see him and I feel him. I am shadow and darkness and stronger than the girl he sacrificed for that crown.