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His eyes travel down my body, as if to assess what I might be useful for—organ trafficking, bone broth, yard maintenance.
“Bob the Vampyre. Love it.”
think you owe me an apology.” “For what?” “The way you stared at my tits.” Silence. Then, instead of the I’m sorry or Go to fucking sleep I expect, he says, “I think you owe me an apology.” “For what?” “How spectacular your tits are.”
Koen grunts, unhappy with the concept of due process.
“Shut up. Acknowledge me as your Alpha!” “Love, we’ve been over this,” Lowe murmurs, patting her knee. “It’s not how it works.” “And bring me gifts of gold, frankincense, and peanut butter!”
“Misery, I’ve seen you flick boogers at passersby.” “I was a child.” “You were seventeen.”
“I’m simply going to lock you up, killer. If I have to chain you to my fucking bed to keep you alive, I will not hesitate.”
“Before I leave, I think I need to hold you for a minute.”
“Alvinophilia. Look it up.
I would give a year of my life, a year I don’t even have, to press a kiss against the corner of his lips. Lower, where the stubble is quickly regrowing. I would do illegal, maybe even unethical things, in exchange for the right to bury my nose in the crook of his throat, where the scent of him is densest.
She is meant for him, but they couldn’t be more impossible.
