Son

“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

“She thought what she was doing was right at the time.” “It wasn’t. I don’t give a fuck if Seamus wants to fuck guys, don’t give a shit if he gets turned on by cucumbers! So long as it isn’t illegal and doesn’t hurt someone else, I’m okay with him being who he is.”
― Serena Akeroyd, Filthy Dark

“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

“But I did. I knew her. I’d seen her with Deirdre, which should have marked her for death, but how could any lover of art mark a woman like this for death? She was beautiful. She was gothic. She was a muse in the flesh. Titian would have switched from redheads to brunettes for her. Aela O’Neill. Walking salvation and the promise of hell. I should ignore her, should send her packing, but instead, I rumbled, “Hello, Aela,” and took my first steps, without even a blink, into the abyss.”
― Serena Akeroyd, Filthy Dark