Truth was a tool. It should never simply be said. No, it had to be bent, twisted, colored, until it became a weapon.

He'd been so angry at her -always pushing his buttons, that girl. But then he'd taken her into his arms, and all that anger had blazed into a darker, hotly possessive need that had urged him to bend his head, bite down on the throbbing pulse in her neck, leave a mark.

He leaned a fraction closer. “My lovers have always been warrior women. Strength intrigues me.” She refused to let him play with her like this, even if her body disagreed. Vehemently. “Do knives intrigue you, too? Because touch me and I will cut you up. I don’t care if you throw me off the nearest balcony.

Some things need to be broken to become stronger.

Be gentle with him, Mercy. He's got a heart as big as Texas— he'll die for you without blinking. But he doesn't expect anyone to do the same for him.

God, you’re sexy when you talk Psy.

He didn't know what else to do, how to comfort her, so he simply held her, held the only person in the world who had ever cried for him