Dreamfever (Fever #4)

by Karen Marie Moning

“Where’s Mac?” Barrons says, soft, making my gaze dart back to him. Soft from him is a surgical knife poised above your jugular. “Has the bitch hurt her?” If looks could kill! Someday somebody’s gonna look at somebody about me like that.

He kisses me until I cannot speak or even breathe, until I do not even care if I ever breathe again.

If I knew Jericho Barrons, he was walking around feeling like his dick was the most huge, magnificent, perfect, important creation under the sun.

People are

capable of varying degrees of truth. The majority spend their entire lives fabricating an elaborate skein of lies, immersing themselves in the faith of bad faith, doing whatever it takes to feel safe.

Did we call the things of our heart our own, whether they were or not?