When I spoke enviously of Josephine’s long lashes, rosy cheeks and soft curves, the corners of my Samael’s lips lifted, and he let out a low, menacing laugh that sent an erotic chill down my spine. He withdrew his blade and spoke in a hauntingly satisfied murmur to its blood-stained tip: “My love, all skeletons look the same.”
The rockstar was born eleven days after I was.
I should probably stop measuring myself against him if I ever want to be happy.
I went to school with a two-time Brownlow medal winner.
I could win the Nobel prize now and he would still be more famous.