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“You’re still the kind of arse who’ll pick two fights before breakfast, but you’ve been desperate for someone else to look after, haven’t you?”
The look intensified to a Look.
Walter stood with the knife raised and his teeth bared. And Edwin—Edwin was not the resigned, anaemic figure with two thin cuts. He was heaving for breath, swaying on his feet, and his arms were a ravaged mess of blood.
“Stop bloody waffling and get on with it, Hawthorn,” came a loud Somerset voice from the crowd. “The wife’s not enjoying this cold.” Thank God for Pete Manning.
With his thin pallor and his own blue eyes he looked, fleetingly, far closer to a relation of Dufay than Jack ever had. He looked halfway fae himself.
Jack’s mother managed both of these feats without dropping her smile. That was a kind of magic that Jack had never bothered to learn.
Take your blood loss and go to bed.”
“I want you so much it makes me useless.”
“And what a gift you are. Born to take my cock however and wherever I want to give it to you.”
One of those expressions like a stone thrown through stained glass passed over Alan’s face. Uneven edges, colour and light.
“Size and strength, station and wealth. All the advantages possible. Do you know how hard it is to believe someone won’t use any of that against you? To put your heart in someone’s hands, knowing that?”
If there are days in the rest of my life when I don’t have you there to pick fights with, they will be the poorer for it. I could walk into any room, anywhere, and always be glad to see you there.
“I would take your heart between my ribs and guard it like my own. Is there any way I could make you believe it?”
WOW
“I’d put my blood into any oath you care to name,” he said.
Perhaps Margaret Oliver had said yes because she’d known how much it would cost her to say no.
The fact of blood doesn’t matter much without the fact of growing up together.”
“I love how you look when you’re wanting it.”
“I want to kiss you until your mouth forgets it exists for any reason but to let me taste it. I want to kiss you so well, and so long, that every narrator in your books will crawl off their pages and die from sheer jealousy.” His lips almost, almost made contact. But didn’t. He sounded like rough gravel and black tea full of sugar. “Will you let me?”
wanted acts he could dissolve into, to forget himself and the hard realities of the world. He could not dissolve into this. Every part of him cried out to be more present, to feel more,
“I should trade you in for a larger model. You’re too short for this.”
“I want to see what you become when you’re given the space for it.”
I would write you into immortality. I would trap you in ink and wear the pages next to my skin until they fell apart. Kiss me until I know you. Kiss me until you know me, and unmake me, and love me anyway.
I can’t decide whether it was Sir Robert’s mound of unpaid debts or his complete lack of interest in women which I found more appealing in a husband.”
