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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.

R.L. LaFevers

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R.L. LaFevers
Ready
Whatever
Death
Part
May
Mean
Heart
Handmaidens
Never
Whenever

More quotes by R.L. LaFevers

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If he is smart, he will run. He is not.
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The pain of hope dying is worse than his fists and boots.
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God's Teeth,' he says. 'I was only trying to wake you. You were crying out in your sleep.' 'I was not,' I say, then look from his neck to my knife. 'When I tried to wake you, you stabbed me.' He sounds sore put out. and I cannot blame him.
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It is all we have left to us. And while it is more than I ever dared dream, it is nowhere near enough.
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Whenever you are ready, or if you never are, my heart is yours.
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When he laces his fingers through mine, my heart does its now familiar panicked flight, bumping painfully against my ribs. My shoulder twitches as if to pull my hand back, but my heart overrules it.
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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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I am sorry,' he whispers. 'I am sorry I treated you so ill. I thought only to protect Duval.' 'It was not I who was poisoning him,' I say. 'No, but you had stolen his heart and I was afraid you would rip it from his chest when you left.
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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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He smiles then, and even though it is well past midnight, its as if the sun has just come out.
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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.
R.L. LaFevers
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He barks out a laugh. My little rebel.
R.L. LaFevers
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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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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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There is no shame in scars, Ismae.
R.L. LaFevers
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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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One heart cannot serve two masters.
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In the distance a wolf howls. Let it come, I think. Beast will most likely simply howl back, and the creature will either turn tail and run or fall into line behind him, like the rest of us have.
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The body on the ground is nothing more than a shell, a husk, and I am filled with a sense of peace. Yes, I think. Yes. This is what I want to be. An instrument of mercy, not vengeance.
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Why be the sheep when you can be the wolf?
R.L. LaFevers