Little Thieves (Little Thieves, #1)

by Margaret Owen

There’s a shimmering, intoxicating kind of thrill to it, this game between us. I am his puzzle and he is my lock, and it’s

an arms race to solve the other first. But somewhere in all the knots and twists and trapdoors, he turned to an arsonist, leaving his embers in my veins, smoke on my tongue, a fire burning softly in my heart.

And just like that: I am the firelight, caught in his stare, dancing and burning for it.

I don’t know what’s worse: that he’s slipped into my heart like a knife, or that I like the feel of him there.