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I comfort myself with the knowledge that if Duval ever feels smothered by me, it will be because I am holding a pillow over his face.

R.L. LaFevers

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R.L. LaFevers
Feels
Suffocating
Pillow
Holding
Comfort
Face
Knowledge
Faces
Ever
Smothered

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Perhaps that is because you mistake death for justice, and they are not the same thing at all.
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Whenever you are ready, or if you never are, my heart is yours, until Death do us part. Whatever that may mean when consorting with one of Death’s handmaidens.
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Every time he glances at me I feel it just as surely as if he has reached out and run his finger along my soul. It is all I can do not to smile at the sheer wonder of it.
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We are all of us, gods and mortals, made up of many pieces, some of them broken, some of them scarred, but none of them the total sum of who we are.
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You would throw away all that we have given you for a man’s love?” “Not a man’s love,” I say softly. “But Duval’s. And I would find a way to serve both my god and my heart. Surely He does not give us hearts so we may spend our lives ignoring them.
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When one consorts with assassins, one must expect to dance along the edge of a knife once or twice.
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He smiles then, and even though it is well past midnight, its as if the sun has just come out.
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He does not start guiltily, as he should, but frowns in annoyance. Who are you? I slip my hand through the slit of my overskirt, and my fingers close around the hard wood of the crossbow tiller. Vengeance, I say softly.
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I am left with the conviction that an avalanche would be easier to dissuade than that man.
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However, there are those who deserve to die but who have not yet encountered the means to do so—we help them on their way.
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