The rebel in me never really had died. She just needed some time off and a reason to come back to work.

As someone who never followed rules, as someone who did everything she could to avoid them, I was done living by Marin’s law. I needed Brent now. I would have him back. And soon.

Death despises bartering. Yet this king of Death was the greatest barterer of us all. He bartered with our lives, dreams, hopes, and prayers—he used them to control us. And he would continue to so long as we allowed him. But today, if only for me, he would stop. He wouldn’t win.

I couldn’t figure Brent out. Sort of like if Prince Charming saw Cinderella in sweats, pimply-faced, and covered in ice cream stains, and he still took her to the ball. What did he see in me that screamed “rebel”?