There Are No Saints (Sinners, #1)

by Sophie Lark

Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer—both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams . . .”

I do not love men: I love what devours them.

“Evil men always want to justify what they do,” she says. “And it’s not by telling you all their reasons. No . . . they want to push you, and bend you, and break you until you snap. Until you do something

you thought you’d never do. Until you can’t even recognize yourself. Until you’re as bad as they are. That’s how they justify themselves . . . by trying to make you the same as them.”

She’s more twisted than I ever dared dream.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” she says. Then she kisses me on the mouth.

And I realize . . . she’s everything I dreamed of and more. More vengeful. More strategic. More effective. More fucked up.