expected to take my side strolled into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a bed sheet wrapped around his hips.
“Why do you bother, Crispin? You married a fighter, so stop trying to convince her that the sidelines suit her better.”
“The day you love anyone but yourself is the day I’ll take your marital advice, Ian,” Bones bit back in an icy tone.
“Then today is that day,” Ian replied sharply, “for I love you, you wretched, pig-headed guttersnipe. I also love that arrogant, overprivileged dandy smirking at us”—a wave indicted Spade, whose aforementioned smirk vanished—“as well as the emotionally fractured, malfunctioning psychic who sired me. And you, Crispin, love a bloodthirsty hellion who’s probably killed more people in her thirty years than I have in over two centuries of living, so again I say, don’t bother trying to convince her that she isn’t who she is. ”
Denise’s mouth hung open, either at Ian’s less-than-flattering descriptions of us, or the notion that I’d killed more people than he had. Spade’s expression was now stony, but a muscle ticked in Bones’s jaw—the only indication of his feelings since he’d shrouded his aura under an impenetrable cloud.
As for me, I didn’t know whether to punch Ian for calling Bones a pig-headed guttersnipe or thank him for stating the obvious. I might be tired of all the fighting and constantly straddling the line between life and death, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t good at it.
Some people were born to be mothers, fathers, inventors, artists, speakers, preachers . . . and then there was me.
“He’s right,” I said in a quiet tone. “My true skill is killing. I’ve excelled at it since I was sixteen, when I took on my first vampire without knowing anything about them.”
Then I went over to Bones, framing his face in my hands.
“It was you who taught me to judge people by their actions instead of their species. You saved me from a life of misery, regret, and well-earned recriminations. Now it’s time to let me do my thing, Bones”—I smiled wryly—“and trust that you taught me to be the best damned killer I could be.”
He covered my hands with his own, his flesh vibrating with the power he kept so tightly under control. Then he kissed me, gentle yet full of scorching passion.
Which was why, when he drew away and spoke, I couldn’t believe what he said.
“You’re right, luv. But I still refuse to be a part of this.”
Then I really didn’t believe it when he walked out of the apartment.
Thirteen
T his wasn’t the first time Bones had gotten pissed enough to walk out on me. Whoever said marriage was easy? Not me.
“He just needs time to cool off,” I told Denise, who hovered in the doorway, holding a bottle of gin in one hand and a pint of Häagen-Dazs in the other. Had to give it to my best friend: She knew how to cover her bases.
I pointed at the gin. She came inside, handing it over. Then she sat next to me on the bed and popped the lid off the ice cream, digging into that one herself.
“Of course he’ll be back,” she said between spoonfuls. “But are you, you know, okay in the meantime?”
I took a swallow of gin before I answered. “I’ve been better. When Bones does return, we’ll have it out over the way he chose to express his dissenting opinion, but marriage is a marathon. Not a sprint.”
Denise raised her spoon in salute. “True, that.”
I patted her arm, taking a last swig of gin before I put the bottle on the nightstand. Then I pulled out one of my burner phones, dialing a number that used to connect me to my uncle when he was alive.
“Madigan,” a brusque voice answered.
“This is Cat Russell,” I said. “We need to talk.”
The space of two heartbeats went by before Madigan replied, “Aren’t we doing that now?” in a manner that sounded more cautious than sarcastic.
I let out a short laugh. “Humor never was your strong suit, Jason. I mean face-to-face, and
“Why do you bother, Crispin? You married a fighter, so stop trying to convince her that the sidelines suit her better.”
“The day you love anyone but yourself is the day I’ll take your marital advice, Ian,” Bones bit back in an icy tone.
“Then today is that day,” Ian replied sharply, “for I love you, you wretched, pig-headed guttersnipe. I also love that arrogant, overprivileged dandy smirking at us”—a wave indicted Spade, whose aforementioned smirk vanished—“as well as the emotionally fractured, malfunctioning psychic who sired me. And you, Crispin, love a bloodthirsty hellion who’s probably killed more people in her thirty years than I have in over two centuries of living, so again I say, don’t bother trying to convince her that she isn’t who she is. ”
Denise’s mouth hung open, either at Ian’s less-than-flattering descriptions of us, or the notion that I’d killed more people than he had. Spade’s expression was now stony, but a muscle ticked in Bones’s jaw—the only indication of his feelings since he’d shrouded his aura under an impenetrable cloud.
As for me, I didn’t know whether to punch Ian for calling Bones a pig-headed guttersnipe or thank him for stating the obvious. I might be tired of all the fighting and constantly straddling the line between life and death, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t good at it.
Some people were born to be mothers, fathers, inventors, artists, speakers, preachers . . . and then there was me.
“He’s right,” I said in a quiet tone. “My true skill is killing. I’ve excelled at it since I was sixteen, when I took on my first vampire without knowing anything about them.”
Then I went over to Bones, framing his face in my hands.
“It was you who taught me to judge people by their actions instead of their species. You saved me from a life of misery, regret, and well-earned recriminations. Now it’s time to let me do my thing, Bones”—I smiled wryly—“and trust that you taught me to be the best damned killer I could be.”
He covered my hands with his own, his flesh vibrating with the power he kept so tightly under control. Then he kissed me, gentle yet full of scorching passion.
Which was why, when he drew away and spoke, I couldn’t believe what he said.
“You’re right, luv. But I still refuse to be a part of this.”
Then I really didn’t believe it when he walked out of the apartment.
Thirteen
T his wasn’t the first time Bones had gotten pissed enough to walk out on me. Whoever said marriage was easy? Not me.
“He just needs time to cool off,” I told Denise, who hovered in the doorway, holding a bottle of gin in one hand and a pint of Häagen-Dazs in the other. Had to give it to my best friend: She knew how to cover her bases.
I pointed at the gin. She came inside, handing it over. Then she sat next to me on the bed and popped the lid off the ice cream, digging into that one herself.
“Of course he’ll be back,” she said between spoonfuls. “But are you, you know, okay in the meantime?”
I took a swallow of gin before I answered. “I’ve been better. When Bones does return, we’ll have it out over the way he chose to express his dissenting opinion, but marriage is a marathon. Not a sprint.”
Denise raised her spoon in salute. “True, that.”
I patted her arm, taking a last swig of gin before I put the bottle on the nightstand. Then I pulled out one of my burner phones, dialing a number that used to connect me to my uncle when he was alive.
“Madigan,” a brusque voice answered.
“This is Cat Russell,” I said. “We need to talk.”
The space of two heartbeats went by before Madigan replied, “Aren’t we doing that now?” in a manner that sounded more cautious than sarcastic.
I let out a short laugh. “Humor never was your strong suit, Jason. I mean face-to-face, and
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