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Rhage was cursed. Literally. He’d gotten himself in some serious trouble right after his transition. And the Scribe Virgin, that mystical force of nature who oversaw the species from the Fade, had given him one hell of a punishment. Two hundred years of aversion therapy that kicked in whenever he didn’t keep himself calm. You had to feel sorry for the poor bastard.
The conversation kept up in spite of the music, but the atmosphere had changed. Which made sense, considering there was now a live grenade in the car. Butch glanced back at Zsadist. Black eyes glittered in return. The smile on the vampire’s face was greedy for sin and ready for evil.