Dreamfever (Fever #4)

by Karen Marie Moning

fire in the dark pit of my brain. OOPs no longer make me feel sick. They make me feel … alive. “He said you’re the jackass who taught him Voice,” I continued. “Funny how you forgot to mention that when you were trying to teach me.” “I forget nothing, Ms. Lane. I omit.” “And evade.” “Lie, cheat, and steal,” he agreed. “If the shoe fits.” “You have absurd priorities.” He stepped from the shadows between bookcases. I looked him up and down. Once before I’d seen Jericho Barrons wearing jeans and a T-shirt. It’s like sheet-metaling a W16 Bugatti Veyron engine—all 1,001 horsepower of it—with the body of a ‘65 Shelby. The height of sophisticated power sporting in-your-face, fuck-you muscle. The effect is disturbing. He had more tattoos now than he’d had a few days ago. When I’d last seen him wearing nothing but a sheen of sweat, his arms were unmarked. They were now sleeved in intricate crimson and black designs, from bicep to hand. A silver cuff gleamed on his wrist. There were silver chains on his boots. “Slumming, huh?” I said. You should talk, said those dark eyes, as they swept my black leather ensemble.