Pestilence smiles as my eyes rove over him, and I swear he presses his shoulders back just a little at my inspection. “Are you enjoying what you’re looking at?” I ask, even as I drink him in. The comment is supposed to be snarky, but it comes off more like bait for a compliment. “Your form is oddly pleasing to me.” Like just about everything else Pestilence says, his words bring out two opposing emotions. My blood heats, and yet … pleasing? A painting is pleasing. And oddly so? A woman should not be oddly pleasing. She should be a ball-busting, skull-crushing, badass motherfucker who is
...more
