The Irresistible Urge to Fall for Your Enemy (Dearly Beloathed, #1)

by Brigitte Knightley

Perhaps we can equip you with a plan B. And a plan C.” “B for Blackmail, C for Coercion?”

“Right,” said Osric. “Where’s my cloak? I’m off to bribe. And if Fairhrim refuses, I shall proceed with kidnap.” “A classic, sir.”

It took him two hours, but he triggered no wards, and didn’t kill anyone. Champion.

Adding to this jolly decor was a skeleton that grinned at Osric from a back corner. Thin copper wires, representing, he supposed, the seith system, wound through and around the skeleton’s dusty bones. A pair of pink heart-shaped sunglasses rested upon its skull.

He hit her with a grin (devilish) and a wink (suggestive).

Quite impressive, how Fairhrim could pack all her moral repugnance into a glance.

Weren’t they meant to be rugged killers? This specimen had the fortitude of wet quiche.

“It followed you from the Downs?” “Must’ve hitched a ride. It now lives here. I can’t find it to kill it.” “Face like a bollock,” said the cricket. “Fuck off,” said Mordaunt. “Suck a fart out of my arse,” instructed the cricket. “When I find you,” said Mordaunt, addressing the room at large, “I am going to make you suffer.” “Perhaps you should deal with your daddy issues first,” said the cricket.

“Indecent,” said Osric, given that she had an ankle.

He looked at her as one who wished to worship, and one who wished to defile. The next time the light flashed, the mirror was back. They sat for a long time, leaning against each other, existing in two states at once. Hate could feel strangely like something else.

Also: Fairhrim had no business having Thighs of Interest.

(A knight in shining armour he wasn’t, but a knight in shining passive aggression—yes.)

Aurienne rolled her eyes so hard, she saw her frontal cortex.

Aurienne, sick with convulsions of guilt, wished she could be as lackadaisical, but no—she was highly daisical.

“What’s an episiotomy scissor?” “It’s used in childbirth.” “A scissor? In childbirth? What for?” “Cutting the perineum, between the vagina and anus.” Having delivered this newest eight-word horror story, Fairhrim quit the room, taking whatever was left of Osric’s innocence with her.

Then came the tender apocalypse of his lips on hers.

“Lovely outfit,” said Osric. “Crime-scene chic.” “Thank you,” said Tristane. “It has pockets.”