There aren’t two like her; I don’t care where you look. I won’t have her hurt either.

There’s nothing sweet about me, love,” he said.

The night I was born, my great uncle Moanea, the village forester, shot a wolf. The villagers roasted it in the fire and fed the meat to the dogs.

Och, my potion is boiling. I need to say good night and keep an eye on the pot. Ye canna overboil newt’s eyeballs.

Lynetta bared her wickedly sharp pointed canines and hissed. Her long black hair hung wildly to her hips, tangled and teased by the breeze. She was petite like me but as strong as a male...