“I've had a never-ending, unquenchable need to taste you since the moment I laid eyes on you."

Devlin gaped at her, lips parting in disbelief. “You traded your life to the sea knowing full well that you didn’t know how to swim” Fenna bristled. “I didn’t think you would toss me into the bay at your first given chance.”

“My mother would have expected it from me. The women who have signed themselves to my charge expect it from me. And furthermore, I expect it from me. No one will touch you, except when you want to be touched.”

Though Devlin merely returned her gratitude with a gruff grunt from the back of his throat, he was certain he would choose to spend the rest of his existence in an uncomfortable armchair still in his wet, frigid clothes just to hear her say them again.

What would he do to keep Fenna at his side? Absolutely anything was the resounding answer. He would do anything. He would sacrifice a thousand men, and burn the world to the ground in the process.

"I don't know that I ever lived before laying eyes on the likes of you."

I manage to give him a groggy grin before asking, "Are you going to sleep?" 
"Oh, darling, I'm already dreaming."

"I never wanted this. Never wanted to be what I am today. But monsters are made, not born. And I had no choice in the matter. I have no choice in the matter. But I won't deny what I am, and I'll do what I must for my kingdom. For my king."

And yet, he failed to mention how he'd hit her. Perhaps I'll relieve him of one of his hands, so he never has the opportunity to lay it on a woman again. 
"I spoke with him, yes," I say quietly. "Though it seems we may be having another conversation in the near future."

"Hi," I say, very awkwardly, because I don't know what you're supposed to say to a girl who is also a grown woman, a fictional character who is also a person, a villain who might also be a victim.

But Starling House was no longer just a house. What had begun as stone and mortar had become something more, with ribs for rafters and stone for skin. It has no heart, but it feels; it has no brain, but it dreams.

It’s just that I’m tired.

Arthur retreats upstairs to do whatever he does during the day, which I assume involves a coffin filled with grave dirt.

It seems to take a very long time to get there: the staircase stretches endlessly upward, doubling back on itself more times than is strictly logical, and I make a dozen false turns on the third floor. The fifth time I end up standing in the library I sigh very hard and say, to no one in particular, 
"You are being a real dick about this." 
When I turn around, the narrow staircase is behind me. I brush my fingers along the wallpaper in silent thanks.