“Maybe West End’s tired of seeing its girls used as Royal fodder.” Wicker chuckles up at him, tipping his head back. “Then maybe West End should do a better job of protecting them.” “That’s the thing about our girls, you see. They’re red and purple, born to fight.” Remy leans over, slamming his palms on the armrests. “All we gotta do is give them the weapons.”
