Ana María and the Fox (The Luna Sisters, #1)

by Liana De la Rosa

“Do you suppose anything outside of Europe is incapable of beauty and culture and art? That only British history, European history, is worth knowing? As if the greatness of the British Empire, the Spanish Empire . . . the Roman Empire . . . weren’t built on the backs of those they stole from. Those they pillaged from, all while they claimed to be civilizing the native people.”

“Christ, man, you cannot do this to me.” The duke wiped a hand across his mouth. “If you have developed a sense of humor, whatever do I have to live for? Needling you to smile was my purpose in this wretched life.”

“I swear that people thrive on being critical of women.”

And she would keep laughing, because, Dios mío, she had earned that right, and she would not allow anyone to tell her to stop.

“Those in power have grown desensitized. It’s easy to prioritize concerns and plans of action when certain issues do not affect you directly.” Ana María’s mouth quirked. “Or there is a profit to be made.”

“I’m here to help explain difficult things to you. As the ugly sister, I have had more opportunities to learn, for I was never expected to perform for Father’s many allies.”

“It stems from fear, doesn’t it? This need for some people to avoid the pursuit of knowledge, to suppress their curiosity, and to ridicule, shame, and threaten those who do. I find it incredibly frustrating—”

“You’re like a prism, displaying your thoughts and emotions in an array of colorful expressions. I’m sure I could watch you all day.”

Anytime he visited grand English estates, it wasn’t just the guests and servants who tracked him with covert stares. For he saw the dark shadows lurking in the brightly lit ballrooms. The veneer of gentility that failed to mask the tainted history imprinted on the foundation. The stares were in the bricks and stones and mortar that comprised the manor itself. The blood of their makers, whose flesh was bought and sold to support such idyllic country houses, called to him. To the burning flame inside his heart that his grandmother protected and carried, and passed on to him.

“Have you noticed that many myths, no matter which culture they originate from, focus on love or loss or revenge?” Gideon rested his chin on the crown of her head. “Why are humans so consumed with the three?” “Because they remind us we’re alive.”

“And I always assumed you were his friend because you were also a wretched shit stain of a man. It’s quite gratifying to see I’m right.”