It was an addiction. A pointless, self-destructive addiction. But really, is there any other kind?

No, you should stay right where you are, or my estranged brother and I will settle our difference by seeing who can break more of your bones."

Tod glanced at him, brows raised. "You want to settle our differences?"

Nash frowned. "No, I want to break every bone in his body, and I didn't think you'd let me do it alone."

Tod nodded. "Good call.

Ethan was loyal and funny and protective. When we were little, he was the brother most likely to make me cry—and mostly likely to wipe away my tears.

You don’t want me to stand against the council. You want a magic wand, so you can walk around smacking people with it until everything’s just the way you like it. But guess what, Faythe? Life doesn’t work like that. Life bites, and the harder you fight it, the more leverage it has to tear your heart right out of your chest. And if you really want to wake this particular sleeping dog, the truth is that if you’d just taken that "damn ring" five years ago, none of this shit would ever have happened!

There was just no good way for a dead son to greet his mother almost two weeks after his funeral.

Did he show himself?” Nash asked, and I glanced to my right to see him staring at my father, as fascinated as I was.
My dad nodded. “He was an arrogant little demon.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“I punched him.”
For a moment, we stared at him in silence. “You punched the reaper?” I asked, and my hand fell from the strainer onto the edge of the sink.
“Yeah.” He chuckled at the memory, and his grin brought out one of my own. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my father smile. “Broke his nose.