I never feared the tales – of demons, curses, ancient hungers. They were just stories stitched into the hems of my mother's skirts. But in Moscow, I met a man with winter in his eyes and silence in his shadow. I don't know what he is – yet.
But I intend to bind him. Slowly.
And I intend to enjoy it.

She entered the room like a secret meant for no one. A woman of ink and fire, southern-blooded and sharpened by witchcraft. I should've devoured her and been done with it.
Instead, I let her touch my hunger.
Now I can’t decide if I want her ruined… or worshipped.