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383 pages, Paperback
First published December 17, 2019
Brand said, fiercely, in a breaking voice. "You're my boy. You can do anything. Anything."
“If this is what the Tower calls poor, we need to invite him over to Half House for a fucking sleepover. He can sleep on the floor, between the broken washing machine and the milk crates I use for shelves.”
“Rune, so help me, if you don’t stop thinking about fishing that piece of toast out of the trash, I will punch you in the eye.”
“I just don’t understand why you needed to throw it away,” I complained. “And while we’re on the subject, have you noticed how much stronger our Companion bond is getting? I’m not used to you reading my mind this well.”
“I don’t need telepathy to guess what you’re like before you have coffee. Sit the fuck down and get your shit together.”
He kissed my eyelids. “Know this, then: I am where I want to be. Right now, I am where I want to be, and it makes me very, very happy.”
Flames burst from me. They raced from my eyes, down my face; swept along my arms; fanned across the jade floor in a plume of solar yellow. The world became my silhouette.
“Brand did that to me,” Addam said. “In the Westlands, at my family compound. When I tried to blame myself for what Ashton caused. Brand poked me and said that I didn’t do this. That this was done to me. Rune, what happened to you . . . It was done to you. You did not cause it. I think the world of you for how you’ve handled it. I truly do.”
Brand pulled his gun out of his holster, removed a cartridge from his belt, and slapped it into place. He aimed the gun at my leg and shot me. “What the hell, Brand!” I shouted. I looked down at the blue, feathered end of a dart. “You did that really quickly. It’s like you’ve been waiting for the chance.”
Brand smiled . . .
“You act like wanting to shoot you is a secret. I’ve practically painted murals of it on my wall. It’s the closest I can think of to an off switch when you’re about to do something fucking stupid.”