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“Fuck, I think I love you.” I groaned, eyeing up the cheese-filled masterpiece. River made an odd noise, and I frowned at him. “I’m talking to the sandwich, you narcissist.”
“Oh gosh, sorry, where are my manners today?” I rolled my eyes, “Guys, Director Pierre is also my dad, Jonathan Davenport. Good old secret identities, hey, Daddy-O?”
“Oh fuck, I think I love you.” Reaching for the massive burger which had been placed in front of me, I snorted a quick laugh at the shocked expressions on the guys’ faces. “She means the burger,” River muttered. “She's pulled that line before.”
“Did you just call me dramatic? I was just told to fight to the fucking death”—she paused for dramatic effect; the irony was not lost on me—“with a goddamn, motherfucking werewolf. Who, I might add, is batshit crazy. But I must be the one being dramatic?”
This fucking girl. She had been nothing but goddamn trouble and heartache since the day she’d stepped into our lives, but fuck if I hadn't loved every second of it.
Even half-dead as she was, she managed to sound sarcastic. Such an admirable talent.
“Oh dear. Don’t tell me Dragă’s daddy is going to bitch slap the lot of you.”
“Did you just call a badass, dragon shifter, ex-fighter, secret agent, cute?” His smoky voice in the darkness was part offended and part amused, so I just snickered in response.
can’t decide,” he finally ground out, “if you’re the most twisted bitch I’ve ever met or just the hardest to please.”
“Scars are the tale of the road we have traveled.” And the loves we’d lost.
