Fire-breathing bitch-queen.

Let’s go rattle the stars.

I didn’t think saying good-bye would be so hard. And with everything that’s to come—
We’ll face it together. To whatever end.

That gods-damned nightgown.

He lifted the lavender soap to his hair, and she squeaked.

“You don’t use that in your hair,” she hissed, jolting from her perch to reach for one of the many hair tonics lining the little shelf above the bath. “Rose, lemon verbena, or …” She sniffed the glass bottle. “Jasmine.” She squinted down at him.

He was staring up at her, his green eyes full of the words he knew he didn’t have to say. Do I look like I care what you pick?

What in hell is that?”
She kept going toward the bathroom, refusing to apologize or look down at the pink, delicate, very
short lace nightgown. When she emerged, face washed and clean, Rowan was sitting up, arms crossed
over his bare chest. “You forgot the bottom part.”
She merely blew out the candles in the room one by one. His eyes tracked her the entire time.
“There is no bottom part,” she said, flinging back the covers on her side. “It’s starting to get so hot,
and I hate sweating when I sleep. Plus, you’re practically a furnace. So it’s either this or I sleep
naked. You can sleep in the bathtub if you have a problem with it.