Now you know how I justify my addictions—if I can pay less for it than I would at Wal-Mart, I get to have it.

I can't help but see myself in them. The Seelie are who I was before my sister died. Pink, pretty, frivolous Mac. The Unseelie are who I've become, carved by loss and despair. Black, grungy, driven Mac.

He strips his shirt over his head and I catch my breath, watching those long hard muscles ripple. I know how his shoulders look, bunched, when he's on top of me, how his face gets tight with lust, as he eases inside me. "Who am I?" "Jericho" "Who are you?" He kicks off his boots, steps out of his pants. He's commando tonight. My breath whooshes out of me in a run-on word: "Whogivesafuck?

Turn it off," Ryodan says without even looking at me. "You're distressing Dani. No one distresses Dani but me.

Some people bring out the worst in you, others bring out the best, and then there are those remarkably rare, addictive ones who just bring out the most. Of everything.

Being threatened seems to being out the worst in me.

All those 'bloodys' was a veritable cornucopia of emotion for Barrons.