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“She had killed and she had liked it, and he surely would have delighted to see her as she was now. Half-mad and fading fast, every inch the Gothic heroine that he’d envisioned. Ophelia, floating dead in the water and haunted by ghosts. Lilith, crafted from the earth instead of as a subjugate of the flesh, drawn to the fiercely blazing beauty of an angel only to find that the brilliant light singed as cruelly as the fires of hell. A fallen woman, drawn to her Lucifer. A cautionary tale to those who refused to bend to the natural order and fell in love with the wrong kind of man.”

“Her world fragmented into dozens of sharp, cutting shards, shedding the salty blood and saltier tears that ringed the bitter cocktail of her despair. She was caterpillar and butterfly, both, caught in a cocoon of raw nerves and open sores; she was insanity, wrapped up in the thin, transient wrappings of a temporary lucidity; and she was afraid, because an innate desire lay in the bottom reaches of her psyche for the very poison that was killing her.”

“There's a saying that you can't put a price on a human life, but that saying is a lie because we have. We have, and it's so much lower than you would think. Yes, human life has its price like anything else, and will continue to do so for as long as it doubles as a commodity.”

“I can't believe it. He is sporting a bona fide erection in the middle of class. All because of me. In history you learn about entire kingdoms crumbling into chaos because of a woman—or, in some cases, multiple women. I smile at Professor Delacroix, putting an extra bit of swing into my hips as I sashay out the door. I'm beginning to see just how easy it is to bring a man to his knees with a few flashes of bare skin, and the whispered promise of hot, sweaty sex.”

“Heritage was everything: it was a golden skeleton key, gleaming with power, able to get the wielder through any number of locked doors; it was the christening of the marriage bed with virgin blood on snow-white sheets; it was the benediction of a pristine pedigree, refined through ages of selective breeding and the occasional mercy culling. It was life, and death, and all that spanned between. It was his birthright.”

“She would hate him even more if she knew all the depraved things he’d done. The fantasies, the stalking, the fucking obsession. That he had used her shampoo to jerk off and stolen her clothes, her lipstick. That when she wasn’t around, he had sometimes lain in her bed and imagined what it would be like to touch her the way she said she’d wanted to be touched in her journal. And of course, he had watched her touch herself. Every catch of her breath, every discreet rustle of fabric, every teasing glimpse of brown skin—he had seen it all, and taken it as a sign that not even Jay was immune to pleasure. And, more importantly, that he could give it to her. He could be the one to make her come.”

“Finally, he'd been forced to rip her hands from his shoulders and pin them to the sheets as he finished, and she'd fought him enough that he'd had to work a little to keep her pinned. When he came, Nick felt so dizzy with lust that it was like his head had been packed with cotton. She's all mine, he thought, as he thrust into her a final time, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the floral scent of her hair. She doesn't need to love me to give me what I want.”

“Jay was neither a small woman, nor a passive one, which suited Nick just fine because he had no use for either. No, underneath all that cool reserve of hers was something hot and bright that he wanted all to himself, something that infused her moral correctitude with a warmth that belied her restraint. He looked up to find her watching him and very deliberately pressed his mouth to the back of her hand before allowing her to free it. That was the price. Control—or the absence of it. He was going to make her lose it all.”