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“He grinned because he'd made her say something ridiculous. The grin was wicked, white and tilted. She panicked, because she thought of sun-shot ponds and sunlight coming down through trees when she looked in his eyes now, and judging from the temperature of her cheeks he was a devil sent up from Hades, not a bloody poem. She might be turning any number of colors, from scarlet to parchment to all those shades of rose in-between, but he regarded her evenly. He was older, bolder. He knew of whores and wars, violence and vendettas. He knew precisely what he wanted, always. He wanted her.” — Julie Anne Long
He grinned because he'd made her say something ridiculous. The grin was wicked, white and tilted.
She panicked, because she thought of sun-shot ponds and sunlight coming down through trees when she looked in his eyes now, and judging from the temperature of her cheeks he was a devil sent up from Hades, not a bloody poem.
She might be turning any number of colors, from scarlet to parchment to all those shades of rose in-between, but he regarded her evenly.
He was older, bolder. He knew of whores and wars, violence and vendettas. He knew precisely what he wanted, always.
He wanted her.