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“Kiss me again,” he says, drunk and foolish. “Kiss me until I am sick of it.”
― The Wicked King
― The Wicked King
“If I cannot be better than them, I will become so much worse.”
― The Cruel Prince
― The Cruel Prince
“I stand.
"The Council wants Locke to arrange some amusement to please Grimsen. If it's nice, perhaps the smith will make you a cup that never runs out of wine."
Carden gives me a look up through his lashes that I find hard to interpret and rises too. He takes my hand.
"Nothing is sweeter," he says, kissing the back of it, "but that which is scarce."
My skin flushes, hot and uncomfortable.”
― The Wicked King
"The Council wants Locke to arrange some amusement to please Grimsen. If it's nice, perhaps the smith will make you a cup that never runs out of wine."
Carden gives me a look up through his lashes that I find hard to interpret and rises too. He takes my hand.
"Nothing is sweeter," he says, kissing the back of it, "but that which is scarce."
My skin flushes, hot and uncomfortable.”
― The Wicked King
“Have I told you how hideous you look tonight?” Cardan asks, leaning back in the elaborately carved chair, the warmth of his words turning the question into something like a compliment.
“No” I say, glad to be annoyed back into the present. “Tell me.”
"I can't.”
― The Cruel Prince
“No” I say, glad to be annoyed back into the present. “Tell me.”
"I can't.”
― The Cruel Prince
“Tell me again what you said at the revel,” he says, climbing over me, his body against mine.
“What?” I can barely think.
“That you hate me,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Tell me that you hate me.”
“I hate you,” I say, the words coming out like a caress. I say it again, over and over. A litany. An enchantment. A ward against what I really feel. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
He kisses me harder.
“I hate you,” I breathe into his mouth. “I hate you so much that sometimes I can’t think of anything else.”
― The Wicked King
“What?” I can barely think.
“That you hate me,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Tell me that you hate me.”
“I hate you,” I say, the words coming out like a caress. I say it again, over and over. A litany. An enchantment. A ward against what I really feel. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
He kisses me harder.
“I hate you,” I breathe into his mouth. “I hate you so much that sometimes I can’t think of anything else.”
― The Wicked King
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