Son

“How old is it?” “Six hundred years old.” The reply had me gasping as I rocked back on my heels. The jade was a pure white, so white that each bead was like frozen milk. There were faint lines in it, but they were faded with age. “Stolen?” He smirked. “What do you think?” That had me swallowing as I whispered, “Don’t think it was meant to decorate your dick.” “No? Shame. I think it looks pretty.” His grin was wicked. “Don’t you?” When he tipped his head to the side, I knew his words were going to be filthy, and I waited on them, waited and wasn’t disappointed. “I’m going to come all over these beads one day, and then I’m going to wrap them around your throat and we’re going to attend the theater. These things are meant to be worn, but they’ve been waiting for you. Only you would ever suit them.”
― Serena Akeroyd, Filthy Dark

“I was the queen of nightmares now though. I made them my bitch and turned them into masterpieces, because suffering made my art shine that little bit harder. And that was the tragedy of being an artist.”
― Serena Akeroyd, Filthy Dark

“Still, I glared at him. “I won’t. I’m in a hospital bed, and I’ve just learned that I have a son, a son with the only woman I ever loved, and somehow, she’s come into my life again. You won’t make her life miserable, either of you, because if you do—” I swallowed, suddenly feeling like I had a chasm edging at my feet, one that was either going to swallow me whole or throw me out the other side like it was a black hole.”
― Serena Akeroyd, Filthy Dark

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in all my life. Which is your favorite?” “That’s like asking me which is my favorite ball.” I blinked then, utterly outraged, twisted to glower at him. “You did not just compare The Concert, Poppy Flowers, and Landscape with Obelisk to your testicles.” His lips curved into a smirk. “I did. Because I can’t choose. How can I? It’s nothing to do with value, and everything to do with how it makes you feel.”
― Serena Akeroyd, Filthy Dark