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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.

R.L. LaFevers

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R.L. LaFevers
Every
Fingers
Time
Smile
Along
Wonder
Glances
Running
Finger
Soul
Sheer
Feel
Reached
Feels
Surely

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Why be the sheep when you can be the wolf?
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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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The pain of hope dying is worse than his fists and boots.
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Whenever you are ready, or if you never are, my heart is yours.
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If he is smart, he will run. He is not.
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For all that I have kissed before, I have never felt anything like this. It is as if I have swallowed a tiny piece of the sun, its warmth and light reaching into every corner of my soul and chasing away the shadows. I surrender to that kiss - surrender to the strength and the courage and the sheer goodness of the 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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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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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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And so it is with us we serve as handmaidens to Death. When we are guided by His will, killing is a sacrament.
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People hear and see what they expect to hear and see.
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You are not my nursemaid. Remember, I am rescuing you.
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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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There is no shame in scars, Ismae.
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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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He barks out a laugh. My little rebel.
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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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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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One heart cannot serve two masters.
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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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