Glint (The Plated Prisoner, #2)

by Raven Kennedy

I don’t know if the bones in my body are as gold as the rest of me, but for my sake, I hope they are. I hope my spine is gilded, because I’m going to need a strong backbone if I want to survive.

Time changes with torment. It stretches on, lengthening seconds, extending minutes. I’ve learned that pain and fear have a way of prolonging. And as if that weren’t cruel enough, our minds make sure we relive those moments again and again and again, long after they’ve passed. What a bastard, time is.

I think some questions can’t bear to face the light. It’s easier for hesitant words and feared answers to be given in the dark. At least then, we can hide them in the shadows—hide ourselves from them.

Life takes you on paths you don’t have a map for.

The problem with truths is that they’re like spices. Add a little, and it can enrich things, let you experience more layers. But if you pour out too much, it becomes unpalatable. My truths seem to always ruin the meal.

“We’re all captives of something, even things we don’t want to admit to.”

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.”

Anger has a way of burning enough to keep you warm, but when you let it drain away, the absence of that heat leaves you bleak with cold.

I’ve been bending over backwards for so long that I forgot I even had a spine.