Up From the Grave (Night Huntress, #7)
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12%
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“Only a fool chooses to live in ignorance when knowledge is so easily obtained.”
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“You know family.” My tone was clipped. “Always a pain in the ass.”
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I only hoped Ian didn’t blow our cover after his bare-chested sashaying failed to sweep her off her feet.
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Ian responded by flashing them a dazzling smile, making him appear almost angelic to anyone who didn’t know that he was a conscienceless slut.
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“Why do you bother, Crispin? You married a fighter, so stop trying to convince her that the sidelines suit her better.”
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“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.”
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Some people were born to be mothers, fathers, inventors, artists, speakers, preachers . . . and then there was me.
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but marriage is a marathon. Not a sprint.”
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“We were never properly introduced,” I said in a vicious purr. “I’m the Red Reaper, and you’re dead.”
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“You were planning to restrain me with them?” I couldn’t contain my angry snort. “What was your plan for when you let me go? Run like hell?”
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“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,
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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.”
57%
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Some days, it didn’t pay to get out of bed.
82%
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No one better say anything bad about Ian around me after today. I officially loved that son of a bitch.
83%
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“Get off, luv, I’m high as a bloody kite. No telling what I’ll do.”
92%
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I couldn’t be prouder if she’d composed a sonnet and pinned it to a bull’s-eye by throwing a knife from fifty paces.