Olivie Blake

His hands curled around her arms as he considered her. He’d slept for twelve years with the memory of her face, observing the reels of memories of who she’d been, and to look at her now, it was strange how much he realized he’d been mistaken. He’d misremembered her; not the color of her eyes or the shape of her mouth, but the heat of being close to her. The details of her had been accurate, but his memories of her were softer, filled with longing. Now that he held her, though, he remembered the truth: that Marya Antonova was as mighty as a strike of lightning, and as difficult to hold. She was as captivating as fear, as undeniable as hunger, and he had loved her then—and loved her now—for all the tremor and the fury that she was.

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.

“I’m engaged.” True, but immaterial.

“How wonderful for you. I’m sure she’s a lovely girl.”

“She isn’t, actually.”

“Even better,” Parisa said. “Neither am I.”

“Why me?” said Tristan.

“Why not?” said Parisa.