A Dowry of Blood (A Dowry of Blood, #1)

by S.T. Gibson

They feel no compassion, the moroi. Only hunger.

I knew then I would chase your tiny moments of weakness all the way into hell and back. What is more lovely, after all, than a monster undone with wanting?

Your hunger for me was always more apparent under the cover of darkness, when you didn’t have to arrange your face into any semblance of civility.

think, my lord, that this is when you loved me best. When I was freshly made, and still as malleable as wet clay in your hands.

I wouldn’t realize until later that you were irritable precisely because I was in bloom, because there were suddenly so many sources of joy in my life apart from your presence.

esire makes idiots of all of us. But you already knew that part, didn’t you?

Love was no girlhood game. It was an iron yoke, forged in fire and heavy to wear.