Everleigh Miles
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Born
Australia
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December 2020
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https://www.goodreads.com/everleighmilesauthor
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"This book is a feral, heart-clutching retelling reborn in shadows and smoke, where danger pulses beneath every stolen glance and forbidden touch. Reid Morrison slips into a masquerade as the Knave of Hearts to spy, only to lose his own heart to Jaspe"
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"4.5 stars.
The Alpha and the Envious Moon is a book about destined couples who are part of two warring werewolf families in the same city. It reminded me a lot of Romeo and Juliet, to be honest. It's very well written, the characters are well developed" Read more of this review » |
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"Wow, this book is the ultimate Romeo and Juliet retell that has been reinvented with some Alpha MxM steam.
Reid Morrison sneaks into a masquarade party dressed as the Knave of Hearts in order to spy and gather information, but he ends up with hearts " Read more of this review » |
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"Enemies, sparks, and a whole lot of forbidden fun—this MM paranormal romance had me swooning and scheming right alongside the characters.
Reid Morrison crashes Jasper Compton’s welcome-home masquerade. One look, stolen moments, and a dangerous game o" Read more of this review » |
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“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts...
There’s fennel for you, and columbines; there’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end,— [Sings.]
“For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
Thought and afflictions, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor and to prettiness.
Song. And will a not come again? And will a not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy deathbed; He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, Flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ’a’ mercy on his soul.”
―
There’s fennel for you, and columbines; there’s rue for you, and here’s some for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference. There’s a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died. They say he made a good end,— [Sings.]
“For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy.
Thought and afflictions, passion, hell itself, She turns to favor and to prettiness.
Song. And will a not come again? And will a not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy deathbed; He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, Flaxen was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God ’a’ mercy on his soul.”
―
“Too much of water hast thou poor Ophelia, and therefore I forbid my tears.
But yet it is our trick, let shame say what it will. when these are gone the women will be out!
Adieu my lord, I have a speech of fire that fane would blaze,
But that this folly doubts it.”
― Hamlet
But yet it is our trick, let shame say what it will. when these are gone the women will be out!
Adieu my lord, I have a speech of fire that fane would blaze,
But that this folly doubts it.”
― Hamlet
“When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
(Ophelia)”
― Hamlet
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element: but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
(Ophelia)”
― Hamlet
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