Up From the Grave (Night Huntress, #7)

by Jeaniene Frost

“Why do you bother, Crispin? You married a fighter, so stop trying to convince her that the sidelines suit her better.” “The day you love anyone but yourself is the day I’ll take your marital advice, Ian,” Bones bit back in an icy tone. “Then today is that day,” Ian replied sharply, “for I love you, you wretched, pig-headed guttersnipe. I also love that arrogant, overprivileged dandy smirking at us”—a wave indicted Spade, whose aforementioned smirk vanished—“as well as the emotionally fractured, malfunctioning psychic who sired me. And you, Crispin, love a bloodthirsty hellion who’s probably killed more people in her thirty years than I have in over two centuries of living, so again I say, don’t bother trying to convince her that she isn’t who she is.”

“I love you, Kitten.” How puny those words seemed compared to the feelings strafing mine, but his voice vibrated as he said them. Then he crouched beside me. “I would never hurt you that way save for one reason: to keep you safe. I can live with your anger, your retribution—bloody hell, despise me if you must, but don’t expect me to behave as though you aren’t the most important thing in my life. You are, and I will let no one, yourself included, bring you to harm.”

“Get off, luv, I’m high as a bloody kite. No telling what I’ll do.” A breath of laughter escaped me. If Bones being high was our biggest danger, this had turned out to be the best day ever.