No way. I'm not going in there. I draw the line at grave-robbing, Barrons. It's not your pen.

I think dating courtesies are common courtesies that should be practiced in most all civilized encounters. I pine for the days of good, old-fashioned manners.

He pulls me around and kisses me. "You're Mac," he says. "And I'm Jericho. And nothing else matters. Never will. You exist in a place that is beyond all rules for me. Do you understand that?" I do. Jericho Barrons just told me he loves me.

I'm here. You're safe now. It's okay to remember. They can never hurt you again.

Propping the mirror against the wall near the door, he waved a hand at it and clipped, "Drustan: Cian MacKeltar. Cian: Drustan MacKeltar." "Dageus," Drustan's voice was soft as velvet, never a good sign, "why are you introducing me to a mirror?

If he were any other man, I might have suspected him of substance abuse, of being coked up or something. But Barrons was too much a purist for that; his drugs were money, power, and control

I want us to be... what is your word? Friends." "Psychotic rapists don't have friends." "I was unaware you were a psychotic rapists or I would not have offered." (Mac & V'lane)