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A smart woman would have shut up. Did I? Hell no. Intelligence is overrated anyway.

Rachel Vincent

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Rachel Vincent
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Leave the door open, my dad said, the second most common warning in his arsenal. Right behind, Nash, go home.
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Regret couldn't fix what he's broken. Apologies couldn't bring back what he's lost. What we'd lost.
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He’s like the Rasputin of reapers.
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But if there was a protocol for how to say goodbye to your newly ex-boyfriend's brother, right after you kissed him and probably sent your ex into the arms of his willing ex-girlfriend, I didn't know what it was.
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You should be careful, tossing descriptors like that around in a situation like this. My ‘problem’ isn’t little. Unless you’re drawing some pretty wild comparisons. Please tell me you’re not drawing wild comparisons. Or blood-relative comparisons.
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Nash has been the sun lighting up the horizon of my life, outshining everything else in my world. I'd thought once that he was to good to be true. Turns out I was right.
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If you want to call yourself my friend, you should know that position comes with boundaries. Sabine frowned. I'm no good with boundaries. Yes, and the ocean is damp. Can we be done with the understatements now?
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Harmony glanced to her left, and my gaze followed hers to the living room, where my aunt had died, my cousin had been restored, and I'd whacked a psychotic grim reaper with a cast-iron skillet. Weirdest. Tuesday. Ever.
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But my hands are in the right place. Heart, I corrected. Your heart's in the right place. Yeah, but my hands are in an even better place. And so they were.
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Uh, yeah, I do. The scythe was a little tricky at first, but—much like golf—turns out it’s all in the swing.
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Great. I'm psychotic and sparkly.
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He took both of my hands, twisting to face me more fully on the flattened box beneath us, and again the colors in his irises seemed to pulse with my heartbeat.
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You don't know me. Don't ever think you know me. The only things you know about me are the things you made me do, and that illustrates your character, not mine.
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Unfortunately, unless the job description included a translation of the prologue of The Canterbury Tales, I was dreadfully under-qualified.
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I live to serve. except the part about living...
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Not that I don't appreciate the rescue, Holt said. But I'm forced to ask, in the interest of self-preservation ... exactly how well armed are you right now?
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I don't want to wear your dad's clothes. He hates me. You'd rather wear mine? Nash scowled.
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Careful, pot, Tod said. Someone might notice your resemblance to the kettle.
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Exactly what part of that is supposed to make me feel better? Though, honestly, hearing that she was jealous of me did make me feel a teeny, tiny bit better.
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Because in most cases, I believe that people deserve a second chance. And because I couldn't have lived with myself if I'd stood by and let them both die souless, when I could have helped.
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