He just didn't look like the kind of creep that would messily murder a woman in her hotel room; he looked like the kind of creep that could line her up in the sights of an assassins rifle without a shred of emotion.

I want purple trews, lass," Drustan called over the door. "No," she said irritably. "And a purple shirt.

He goes for stark versus accessorized, dark over bright, jewel tone instead of pastel, carnal over flirty.

She's too young. Too innocent. Too human. For what I'm becoming.

A fecking flamethrower! Why didn't I think of that? Best I came up with was a measly hair dryer.

Don't lose yourself to anger. It's gasoline. You can burn it as fuel, or you can use it to torch everything you care about and end up standing on a scorched battlefield, with everybody dead, even you-only your body doesn't have the good grace to quit breathing

What is the greater good but tyranny’s chameleon?