Year Four (Kingmakers, #4)

by Sophie Lark

Marko Moroz is the most treacherous counterfeit of a human being I’ve ever encountered.

This is a glorious sentence

“Shakespeare called it Halloween Summer,” Dean says, proving yet again that he’s surprisingly well-read. “Americans call it Indian Summer,” I say. “I dunno if that’s racist.” “Probably,”

I can’t be attracted to her. That’s fucking insane.

“You look like if autumn was a person,” he says, taking one wild red curl between his thumb and index finger. “You look like if the woods came alive. And they were extremely competitive.” He grins.

Her nose has a slight upward tilt to it, like a ski jump, which prevents her features from ever seeming truly severe. I’d love to run my finger down that adorable curve. But she’d probably bite my hand off.

“I’m sorry Kuzmo,” I say. “I’d open the door for you, but I’m afraid you’d have to pluck out your eye and pass it to me through the slot.”

Timo needs a bullet dug out of his calf, though he doesn’t mention it until we’re at the hospital, as it wasn’t bothering him too much and he didn’t want to make a fuss about it.

“What should we call you now?” he says. “Is it still Ares while you’re here? Or just Rafe?” Rafe smiles, his face more relaxed than I’ve ever seen it. “I don’t care what you call me,” he says. “As long as you call me.”

Dean heads to the Undercroft to grovel for forgiveness with Cat—I assume he’ll be successful, as I’ve been told he has some experience with that.