He’s a war mage. They’re almost impossible to kill.” He scowled. “Even on purpose.

Then why are you getting dressed?” “Maybe I don’t like being the only naked one in the room,” I said sarcastically. And immediately regretted it. “That is easily remedied,” he told me, and pulled off his sweater.

We're going jogging." "I don't run for recreation. I run when someone's after me with a weapon." "That can be arranged.

He shook me, and despite it being one-handed, it made my teeth rattle. “If anything like that ever happens again. You. Leave. Me. Behind. Do you understand?” I would have argued, but I was feeling a little shocky for some reason. “I’m not good at abandoning people,” I finally said. A front-desk person scurried over, first-aid kit in hand, but Pritkin snarled at the poor guy and he quickly backed up a step. “Then get good at it!” He stomped off, limping, one shoulder hanging at an odd angle. “You’re welcome,” I murmured.

I left it with a warmer,” he said drily. Because war mages ate their fried chicken frozen to the ground and they liked it.

Yes, but knee pants are so much more flattering. You can see my legs." You want people to see your legs?" I have very nice legs!" We both paused to admire them for a moment.

I turned over, and those big hands got to work on my back. I stifled a whimper in the pillow, because Marco's idea of a massage bore no resemblance whatsoever to the relaxing spa variety. There was no lavender oil, no soothing music, no hot towels. Just an all-out assault on cramped muscles, until they cowered in surrender and turned to Jell-O.