Frost Burned (Mercy Thompson, #7)

by Patricia Briggs

It was time to show these people why they should be afraid of werewolves.

“Dead guys don’t get an opinion,” Darryl told everyone. “We’re the good guys. That we’re scary doesn’t mean we’re the villains.”

“I’m tough,” Tad said soulfully, looking more puppylike and not very tough at all.

He pulled out a pocketknife and cut his index finger. He got a few drops of blood flowing, then pressed his finger on the still-bleeding cut on my forearm. I winced and winced again when he took hold of my hand that held the sword and guided it to taste of our mingled blood.

Ew Tad hope u dont have any bloodborne diseases

Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that I’d quit fearing Asil somewhere along the way and started liking him. Not that he couldn’t still go crazy and kill me—but I grew up with werewolves. Any werewolf can kill you if you are stupid and quit respecting him. The trick is not to be stupid.

Marsilia had just apologized to me. Hell must have been experiencing some climate change.

Marsilia’s eyes were dark again. And she still looked like a college student, young and vulnerable. I knew some of the people in Stefan’s menagerie whom she’d tortured to death. She was not some helpless girl but a sociopath who had outlived most of her enemies.