Emma Scott

“Yeah, I know that. But the sick part, Max, is that it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. I think I am free and then the nightmares come, and everything that was tortured into us comes back up. Is that a life? Is that my life? Forever?”

I kissed Max, hard and deep, and grasped him tightly. Protectively. I vowed to end the next person who tried to hurt him.

I should’ve known that person would be me.

"I want whatever you want. Because when you boil it all down, that’s really the only thing that matters to me. That you’re happy. I just want you to be happy.”

I wondered what it might be like, to be frantic and desperate to save someone’s life, instead of being frantic and desperate just being alive.

It was everything they’d told us was wrong and yet nothing had ever in my life felt so perfectly right.

I promised to protect my heart and instead I ripped it out of my chest and handed it to Silas Marsh.

Yeah, Silas is “good-looking,” I scoffed at myself. And Jason Momoa is “slightly attractive.”