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This must be purgatory for women who’ve lied about how many men they’ve slept with, bought gym memberships they never use, and accidentally-on-purpose forgot to scan items at the self-checkout.
The ability to defend yourself beats being a sitting duck.
think I like the murderous version of him better.
Seb had to beg her to go on a date, but Freddie swooped in to steal his girl with zero effort.
“What a waste of vodka.”
Stealing his woman isn’t all I’m good for.
“Don’t you think it’s fair that I know a little more about the guys who kidnapped me?”
“Because if you do anything to hurt her—and I mean anything—it’s not the Killers Club who’ll hunt you down, it’ll be me.”
Ivy has taken out mafia kingpins before. She can deal with a small gang from London.”
“If you’re not mad, why are you murdering my toast?”
It’s hard not to be resentful when the man who has half of London lusting over him is infatuated with the woman I love.
No man can clip her wings. A woman like Rose needs to fly.
The canned American laughter from Friends re-runs will haunt my dreams.
“Do you want to get rid of me?” Yes, I do—preferably down a ten-foot-deep hole that he can’t claw his way out of.
“Don’t expect me to cook for her,” Callen says. “I wouldn’t eat anything that you’ve made, anyway,”
ignoring Callen when he slurps endless mugs of tea like the hoover from the Teletubbies.
“You can try to kill me.” Rose shrugs. “But not if I kill you first.”
Rose keeps her sweet, sassy-talking mouth shut for a change.
“I was too busy trying to stop him from choking Jessica Rabbit.”
“What if I don’t belong here?” “But you do,” I insist, “because you belong with me.”
I see her pain. I understand it, and I want to fucking erase it.
Being around her is the equivalent of waving a red flag under the nose of a bull.
“Your tattoo…” My voice trails off as I stroke the flower inked into his skin—the white and yellow petals of a daisy. “It looks like I’ll need to get a matching rose,” he says. He marked me onto his skin forever. That’s how serious he was about me. About us.
He’s the first person to see me. The me that exists without being a killer… and he wants that.
I’m not a woman who needs compliments, but I’ll be damned.
I’ll share her with him if it means keeping her.
This is nothing more than a fairytale, Ive.
“Go to hell, Callen.” “Haven’t you noticed yet?” I smirk. “We’re already there.”
“You don’t have to pretend around me. I’ve seen who you are, and I want to set you free.”
No one can turn down a guy with dimples like that.
“Play nice.” “Me?” Callen tears through his toast with his teeth, talking while chewing. “I’m a gentleman!”
It’s my first time on a motorbike, and I love it—not that I’ll tell him that.
“What’s wrong, princess?” he taunts, taking off his helmet to reveal a smirk. “Scared of getting dirty?” “I’m used to clearing up blood and entrails,” I snap. “This is nothing.”
“Do I look like I’m Royal fucking Mail?”
He’s using my logic against me. Fucker.
“I could kill you right now.” “Or I could kill you.”
“I can see it in those beautiful eyes of yours. You need me.” “I don’t need anyone.”
The old Ivy would run from the scary, psychopathic biker, but the new me sees him as a challenge.
Humans gravitate towards horrific things. Why else would true crime be so popular?
“Don’t worry, baby,” he purrs. “I won’t hurt you.” My head turns sharply, alarmed by his sudden tenderness. “What?” “I was talking to my bike,” he says, stroking the seat. He arches one eyebrow. “Did you think I was going to be gentle with you, princess?”
Hopefully, it stains his precious Harley.
“Why don’t you save your questions for when you’re pretending to be a journalist?”
“You pretend you’re tough and that you don’t care, but you do. I can see it.”
She could have stepped straight out of Cinderella. I must have done something right to deserve to take this woman on a date.
“What can I expect from tonight?” she asks. “A load of posh people boasting about how amazing their life is?”
Entering the British upper class is like stepping back in time. The world has moved on, but they’re still trapped in the past, desperately clinging to their relevance and accumulated family wealth.
“Your father couldn’t make it this evening.” The poor chump probably wanted to stay at home to get time away from her.
She pronounces hour like ‘are’ as if a dentist has asked her to open wide to get a look at her tonsils.
“Who are you?” he gasps. “Think of me as a ghost who has returned to haunt you.”
“So you’re giving me permission to crash a party?” “Yes,” he growls. “Don’t get used to it.”
