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Later, I would ask Shaya to help me compose a formal response to Katrice's letter, something a long the lines of I am the Thorn Queen. F*** Off.

Richelle Mead

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Richelle Mead
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: November 12
Author
Novelist
Writer
Michigan
United States
Help
Letter
Helping
Formal
Long
Queens
Something
Letters
Would
Response
Later
Thorn
Lines
Compose
Asks
Queen

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Since...since when? I finally managed to ask. Since...forever. His tone implied the answer was obvious.
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A gun. I had been brought down by a gun. It was practically comical. Cheaters, I thought.
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I went to bed feeling melancholy, wishing I could have poured out all my fears and insecurities to my mom. Wasn’t that what normal mothers and daughters did?
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I’m a succubus.” He shook his head. “No, you aren’t.” “Yes, I am.” “You aren’t.” I was a bit surprised to be having this conversation. “I am too.” “No. Succubi are flame-eyed and bat-winged. Everyone knows that. They don’t wear jeans and sweaters.
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I’ve seen all I need to. I’m going to go drink now in a futile effort to wipe away the memory of this debacle.
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You’re presumptuous and arrogant and a whole lot of other things if you think I’ve changed my mind.” “You see, that’s just it.” There he was again, moving into my space. “I think you like the ‘other things.
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You're not as much of a lost cause as she was. I mean, with her, I had to overcome her deep, epic love with a Russian warlord. You and I just have to overcome hundreds of years' worth of deeply ingrained prejudice and taboo between our two races. Easy.
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Dierdre the counselor must not have had much of a life, because she scheduled our next appointment on a Sunday. I wasn't so thrilled about it, seeing as it wasn't just my day off-it was also the day my friends had off. Orders were orders, however, so I grudgingly showed up.
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I like you being the sinner you are. -Adrian Ivashkov
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Do you want me to call you Celery Stick instead of Cupcake or Honey-Pie? It just doesn’t inspire the same warm and fuzzy feelings.
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The battle cry sort of gave you away. Try not to yell next time.
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You make a joke out of everything. Life’s too painful not to.
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None of you appreciate me. Why is it so hard to believe that I could make a real contribution in these dark rimes?
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Guilt was its own prison.
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I hadn't gotten far when I ran into Mason. Good God. Men everywhere.
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Even if I’d been wide awake, I knew Dimitri would’ve taken my suitcase anyway. That’s how he was, a lost remnant of chivalry in the modern world, ever-ready to help others.
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I had a standing arrangement with God: I'd agree to believe in him—barely—so long as he let me sleep in on Sundays.
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The answer came to me before I'd even finished asking myself the question. I couldn't be Mason's girlfriend because when I imagined someone holding me and whispering dirty things in my ear, he had a Russian accent.
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