Sublime

collogue.

Her mother inclined her head—tacit acknowledgment. “He’s rich as the devil, I’m told.” Felicity refrained from telling her mother that she knew the Devil, and he was richer than anyone she’d ever known.

Now my soul, my gentle, captivating, bewitching, and most demnebly enslaving chick-a-biddy, be calm,'

Cheadle had earned the earldom—received it from the king himself for nobility at sea. I grew up on the docks, she’d told him when he’d tried to scare her with foul language. “That’s her.”

He would know her handwriting anywhere.

“Well, if you see them,” called the girl, “thank Serena for the apartment. Oh, and tell Eli he sucks.” “Will do,” called Victor as the three made their way back to the car.

“Sounds like her loss, because you might be the coolest kid I’ve ever met.” She doesn’t use a sad voice, or a baby voice, she just talks to him like a normal human being. “Fucking hell,” I curse under my breath because she just practically hired herself.

You aren’t much of an actress.” He extended his hand. “But,” he added, softly, seriously, “you are one hell of an ally.”

The first of countless times I’d found myself reaching for Vincent’s approval and wondering desperately whether I’d gotten it. And now here it was, lying with the death warrants of thousands. Two versions of him that I couldn’t reconcile in life, and now was even further from understanding in his death.