cassandra-palmer

You look furious,_ Pritkin said, watching me.__ just__ can__ understand not fighting for your life_ for what you want. Just giving up___ corner of his mouth quirked. __o. You would not understand that. You never stop trying, do you?___hat else is there?___espair. Hopelessness. Anger. Depression.___ut those don__ get you anywhere.__e huffed out something that might have been a laugh, only it didn__ sound happy. __o. They don__.

Pritkin, it__ a hotel room, not a death trap!_ A glance over his shoulder showed him impatient blue eyes under a fall of messy blond curls. __nyway, you__e here.___ can__ protect you from everything,_ he forced himself to say, because it was true. It was also frankly terrifying in a way that his own mortality was not. He__ never had children, but he sometimes wondered if this was how parents felt when catching sight of a fearless toddler confidently heading toward a busy street. Not that his charge was a child, as he was all too uncomfortably aware. But the knowledge of just how many potentially lethal pitfalls lay in her path sometimes caused him that same heart-clenching terror.And the same overwhelming need to throw her over his lap and spank the living daylights out of her, he thought grimly, when she suddenly popped out of existence. __assie!