The Hunter (Victorian Rebels, #2)

by Kerrigan Byrne

He had the ridiculous notion to lean over and kiss those tears. To lick the salt from her body and digest it, make it part of himself. To swallow her sadness so he could feel some of his own.

If the philosophies of Sifu Wu Ping had taught him anything, it was that desire leads to disappointment, and attachment only brings suffering.

was that disparity of skin color that had caused the couple to flee their home in America. That country might call itself the United States, but some divisions still ran so deep, it would likely take them centuries to progress past the rifts.

These scars should serve as a reminder, a reminder of the stains on his soul. They should repel her instead of attract her. They should evoke fear instead of compassion.

He was, in effect, the very definition of a villain. A hero-maker, as so-called good men would brag about his demise.

Of all the men he’d learned to hate, he never felt such loathing as he did for himself.

“Men like you and me, we don’t love like other men do. With patience and poetry and gentle deference. Our sort of love is possessive—obsessive even—and passionate and consuming and … well, fucking terrifying sometimes.”