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“I killed them,” he agrees. “Because he hurt you. Why would I ever let that go?” “Because—I didn’t ask you to—you can’t kill people like this! You slaughtered them.”
“Run,” he tells me, stepping back. “If you’re what he’s after, if you’ve done something to him? Run. And never stop running for anything. Do you understand me?”
Sympathy is almost as bad as pity.
“I see you’re still jumpy in the dark.” Gabriel’s voice in my ear makes me nearly levitate and I whirl around, hating that it brings me closer to him instead of further away. “You,” I hiss, eyes wide. “It’s always me,” he promises, eyes sharp in the dim and dingy light from the porch lamp. “And it’ll never be anyone else.”
“Shit,” I whisper, meeting his eyes. “You’re harder to get rid of than a fucking cockroach.”
Doesn’t that make you feel so special? That I’ll cross the earth for you without complaint?” “No,” I breathe, heart hammering in my chest. “Let go of me, or I’ll hit you.”
Gabriel Brooks has never hurt me. Just declared that I’m his, killed multiple people for me, and followed me from town to town for the last five years. No big deal or anything.
“Maybe I was just implying that I look like the carefree, casual dating type and all the boys around here are lining up for my number.” “You should get theirs instead,” he says, eyes dropping back to the menu. “And why’s that?” “So I can track them down easier to kill them.”
you follow me here, because there’s a tracker in my car, and tell me how I’m yours. But what does that mean, exactly?” It’s apparently my turn for speeches, and I hate how uncomfortable I am with them. How every word makes me more and more unsure of my convictions. “Until you get bored? Until you get what you want?” “Until both of us are dead and reunite in whatever’s waiting for us afterward,” he clarifies,
I want to be able to choose how far you go with me.” “I wouldn’t go further than what we’ve done.” “Well, again, you’ve fucked me with a knife hilt, so that’s a pretty shitty argument,” I point out dryly,
I know you won’t hurt me.” “You trust me?” “Well, you’ve literally drugged me once already and kidnapped me twice. So, yeah. At this point, this kind of feels like child’s play.”
“I don’t feel very Scooby-gang, if I’m being honest.” “Me neither,” he shrugs. “But I’m not the one with the mysterious phone, a knife, and a guy calling you who may or may not be a murderer.
Does the wolf feel bad for the sheep in the field?” “People aren’t sheep,” I protest, reaching a hand up to grip his hair when he licks over my nipple. “Yes, they are, little wolf. They’re sheep just waiting for your fangs.”
“I’ll never let you go, Quinn,” he promises in his soft, rough voice. “Not even in your dreams.”
