Olivie Blake

In reality, time as we experience it is merely an ebb and flow, more circular than it is direct.

Beware the man who faces you unarmed.

If in his eyes you are not the target, then you can be sure you are the weapon.

“There are gifts and there are talents,” the man said. “What would you say this is?”

“Neither.” The second seedling cracked. “A curse, maybe.”

“Is it so difficult to believe I might be here for you, Tristan?”

“I have places to be,” Tristan said.

A life to live. A future to curate.

“You know, for someone who knows his own value so distinctly, perhaps you forget that beneath your natural talent lies someone very, very uninspired,”

there was nothing more dangerous than a woman who knew her own worth.

Some people are flawed and interesting,” Callum said with a shrug. “Others are just flawed.”

“I find people to be largely disappointing,” Tristan commented.

“Interestingly, so do I.”

“Is that considered interesting?”

Being desired was Callum’s favorite. That was smoky, too, in a sense, but more sultry, cloaked and perfumed in precisely what it was. It smelled like tangled bedsheets. It tasted like the flicker of a candle flame. It felt like a sigh, a quiet one; concessionary and pleading. He could always