Rush (Rush, #1)

by Emma Scott

I swoop low, curve up, nearly flip. I let loose a cry of triumph, and ride the edge of the current, higher still, until I can almost touch the sun, like Icarus, only I don’t burn. Not me. I soar.

“The sad whine of a lone violin is probably all it would take to send them over the edge, into the black abyss of their pain.”

There was always light in the world, even in the blackest night. There were always shadows and shades, never just…nothing.

Love, real love, wasn’t empty, grasping hands, or lies that felt like truths. And it wasn’t perfect or neat or always easy. It was a rising sun on a new day. It was endless possibility.