Feversong (Fever, #9)

by Karen Marie Moning

The wound you refuse to dress is one that will never heal. You gush lifeblood and never even know why. It will make you weak at a critical moment when you need to be strong.

I will choose anything over fear.

Rage is fuel. Rage is gasoline. And Ryodan wasn’t completely right—because rage, wielded as a weapon, with focus, purpose, and skill, is also massively useful energy. Anger can refine, distill, clarify. Besides, there’s nothing left to burn in here but myself. And if I incinerate my body in the process—good.

Barrons prodded him with the toe of his boot. “Wake the fuck up, Tink, and tell us what happened.”

Sometimes she missed those days; how she used to feel when she woke up, like life was electric and she was electric and each day was just another awesome fecking run at riding all the glorious, rainbow-colored currents on the kaleidoscopic electric-life-slide.

He lived on the razor’s edge of eternal irritation.

The most critical, defining battles we wage in life, we wage alone. Against ourselves.

I can either be a victim—or a winner. Fuck victimhood. I don’t wear it well; it clashes with my wardrobe.

“Gee, maybe someone shouldn’t have encouraged their suicidal tendencies,” I said, appalled. “Perhaps if you hadn’t pandered to their delusions in your club—” “Don’t even start with me.” Ryodan began to stalk menacingly toward me. Barrons blocked him instantly. “Never. Threaten. Mac.” Ryodan said coolly, “I wasn’t. I was merely moving toward her.” “In a stalking manner,” Barrons said tightly. “For fuck’s sake, it was a nonthreatening stalk. You know I’d never harm her.” He wouldn’t? Hmmm. Good to know. Barrons growled, “My brain fails to distinguish nuances of stalking where Mac is concerned. A stalk is a stalk. All must be terminated. Don’t fuck with me.” Ryodan growled back, “Got it. Get over it. We have bigger problems. Besides, she doesn’t need protecting anymore.”