If anything attacked us, we could just panic at it until it went away.

I am so tired of this gothic crap,” I muttered. “Just once, I want to meet the villain in a cheerful, brightly lit room. Possibly one with kittens.

In the interests of friendship, I hope you’ll forgive me what I’m about to do.”
“Forgive you wha—”
My sentence was cut off as he clamped his mouth over mine, kissing me deeply.

...

“Ready to make a scene?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. To quote something someone said to me recently, in the interests of friendship, I hope you’ll forgive what I’m about to do.” I drew back my hand and slapped him across the face. The smack of flesh striking flesh echoed through the hall. Conversations stopped as people whipped around to stare at us. Raising my voice to something just below a shout, I snarled, “You asshole!

None of this is real, my dear. Not this house, not this conversation, not those shoes you're wearing--which are several years out of style if you're trying to reacclimatize yourself to the ways of your peers, and are not proper mourning shoes if you're trying to hold fast to your recent past--and not either one of us. 'Real' is a four-letter-word, and I'll thank you to use it as little as possible while you live under my roof.

My lord was never sane, but he was my love, once. He always will be, somewhere. Wherever it is that the once upon a times go when they die.

I have never wanted to punch a highway in the face as badly as I do right now.