Some men were handsome. Some were powerful. Curran was...dangerous.

He snarled. I showed him my teeth. A rolled-up newspaper landed on my head and then on Jim’s. “None of that in my house!” Oh my gods. The alpha of Clan Cat just got smacked with a rolled-up newspaper.

I thought of telling him that if it wasn't for Oklahoman cowboys and Mexican whores having a bit of fun, there would've been no Texans, but that would be counterproductive.

He strained to say something else. I leaned toward him. He focused on me. “Rape,” he promised. “Many, many times. Until you bleed . . .” “I’m so flattered.

I love you, and you're the measure of my wrath. Declan.

So. You refuse my money, you serve me thirty-year-old Highland Park scotch, and we've been in the same room for approximately five minutes, yet none of my bones are broken. This leads me to believe that your back is against the wall and you desperately need me for something. I'm dying to know what that is.

Everyone had a weakness. It was the law of nature that for each being there was a predator, or a disease, or a vulnerability built into their very core.